Ain't Life Grand
by Musical Redhead
Summary: "The harder you fight to hold on to specific assumptions, the more likely there's gold in letting go of them." -John Seely Brown - The detective and the crime reporter are going to have to decide what to let go of and what to hold on to. Mystery #3
1. Speed Parade

**Title**: Ain't Life Grand

**Chapter 1**: Speed Parade

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: The wait is over. Here's the third story in my mystery/romance series. I hope you're as excited to read it as I am to be writing it. If you're just now tuning in, welcome. The first two stories were Contraband and Libertad. Happy reading!

_Boldness is ever blind, for it sees not dangers and inconveniences whence it is bad in council though good in execution. –Sir Francis Bacon_

**Speed Parade**

Rory Gilmore was walking through the newsroom at the New York _Daily News_ late one morning, when she paused at the conference room. A small group of her male colleagues had assembled in the room and their attention was fixed on a television screen.

Rory poked her head in. "What's going on?"

"A high speed chase," her editor, James West, answered.

"Oh," she replied. She was less excited than her co-workers. Maybe high speed chases were a guy thing, she thought, as she glanced at the television. A helicopter was providing an aerial view.

"Yeah, the guy robbed a bank over in Jersey City," Kyle, one of her youngest colleagues, explained. "He's working his way across Manhattan now."

"Super." Rory watched for a few minutes. "There's our cavalry," she commented, noting the addition of more police cruisers—the New York Police Department providing assistance.

When the car leading the pursuit made it across the Manhattan Bridge, Rory decided she'd seen enough. She headed back out to the newsroom. She got about two steps out the door when she heard James.

"Holy crap. Here's a new development. Is that the police? It came out of nowhere," he said. And a second later, "Oh, it's the police. They must have gone over the Brooklyn Bridge."

"What is that?" Kyle asked. "A Dodge Charger—or a Camaro maybe?"

Rory stopped in her tracks before turning back.

"I can't tell from this view," another co-worker answered.

"What just happened?" she asked the others.

"Another car just met up with the chase," James answered, turning his head a little in her direction, but not taking his eyes from the action. "Possibly a sports car, from the looks of it. It's really fast."

"What color is it?" she asked.

"What?"

"What color is the fast sports car?"

"Black."

"In that case, I'm going to make a wild guess that it's a Camaro."

"How do you know?"

Rory looked at the screen with narrowed eyes. "Because I've been _in_ it."

"Ah, so it must be the detective then," James said with a grin.

"Who's the detective?" someone from Sports inquired.

"You don't know?" Kyle asked eagerly. "Rory's boyfriend is a detective for the NYPD."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He carries a gun and everything," Kyle said enthusiastically.

"Law enforcement officials tend to do that," Rory said dryly.

"That's the coolest thing ever if it's him."

She looked back to the TV. "Is he kidding me?" She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and hit the speed dial. "He'd better pick up," she said. However, he did not.

"Let the man do his job," James said, clearly entertained by the chase.

"_This_ is not his job," Rory said hotly, pointing to the TV. "His job is to ask people questions and find evidence. Today his job was to testify in court."

"This is way more exciting than sitting in the witness stand."

A few more staff writers walked in to see what was going on. Marie, Rory's fellow crime reporter, was included.

"What's all this?" she asked Rory, turning her attention to the television. "Oh. High speed chase. Fun."

"It is not fun."

"Why are you being such a Debbie Downer today?" Marie asked.

"Because detectives do _not_ get into high speed chases."

Marie looked from the TV to Rory, who still had her cell phone in hand. "Oh," Marie said with a small laugh.

"How fast are they going?" Rory asked.

"Uh, originally, they were going down Interstate 78 at around a hundred and ten miles an hour," James supplied. "I think they might be going faster now."

"That is so awesome," Kyle said. Rory glared at him. "There's no way that Toyota is going to outrun that Camaro."

She looked back at the flat screen. The black car easily gained on the foreign car. The other police cruisers were a couple car lengths behind. The civilian drivers pulled over to the side of the road as the law enforcement vehicles flew by at breakneck speed.

The suspect tried to lose the police by turning onto Belt Parkway, according to the anchorman providing the play by play. But the Camaro was having none of it, as it stayed on the blue Toyota's tail. As the cars sped toward Jamaica Bay, Rory watched with horror as a drawbridge started to open for a boat. She covered her eyes and turned away. "I can't watch," she exclaimed.

There was a collective gasp from her cohorts.

"Whoa!"

"Are they all in the water?" Rory asked.

"Holy shit," someone said.

"That was amazing."

"You can look again," Marie told her. "Everybody made it over the bridge."

That wasn't entirely true, Rory saw, as she took her hand away from her face. Only two cars made it. The other police cruisers had to wait for the boat to pass and the draw bridge to go back down.

Everyone in the conference room continued to watch as a gun was pointed out of the Camaro's passenger side window to shoot out one of the back tires of the small blue car. The muscle car then effortlessly swooped across two lanes to the left so both drivers' side tires could be shot out. After that, the Toyota was at a definite disadvantage. It began to slow down. The Camaro pulled in front of the rogue car as a couple police cruisers caught up and surrounded it on the other sides.

Seeing the chase nearing its end, Rory went to grab her purse from her desk and returned to the conference room a minute later. She was just in time to see the suspect being arrested by the driver of the Camaro.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Marie told Rory. "But that was pretty impressive. That guy deserves to get laid tonight."

"Don't look at _me_ when you say that."

"Are you loaning him out? I wouldn't mind a knight and shining armor."

"I think he prefers to be likened to the _dark_ knight."

Marie nodded. "That fits too."

"Where are they, Jimmy?" Rory asked her editor, she jerked her head toward the TV.

"South Brooklyn," he answered. "Mill Basin they said."

Rory started to make her leave of the newsroom.

"Are you on a mission to hail the conquering hero?"

"No. In fact, you should probably send someone out in about ten minutes to cover the homicide."

"What homicide?"

"The one that's about to happen. Because as soon as I get there, I'm going to _kill_ him." She continued to head for the lobby.

"At least get his statement first!"

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A short time later, Rory was amongst a large crowd in Brooklyn. There were police cars and personnel all around. Since the chase crossed state lines, the local FBI agents were involved. Other media outlets were there to get the scoop, as well. A couple helicopters were still hovering above.

She worked her way through the uniformed officers, even finding the first responders from New Jersey. There wasn't any crime scene tape, so she was able to make her way to the inner circle unhindered, albeit slowly—recording statements took time. But she finally approached two detectives standing next to the Camaro that she and her colleagues had watched on TV. The tall blonde detective smiled slowly when he saw his girlfriend march up to them. She looked less happy to see him.

"Fancy _you_ dropping by, Mary," Detective Tristan DuGrey said pleasantly. He took off his Aviators and hooked them on his light blue shirt. "You're looking as pretty as the day is long."

"And the days are still long in August, so that's saying something," his partner, Detective Mark Stevenson said.

Tristan nodded in agreement.

"You can wipe the smile off your face," Rory said crossly. "What happened to the rest of your clothes?" she asked with knit brows, distracted from her original objective. She was sure he'd been wearing a tie when he left for work that morning, as well as a light grey suit jacket to match his pants.

"He started stripping as soon as we stepped out of the court house," Mark answered for his partner.

"It's hot out," Tristan said in defense. "But that can't be why you're mad. Am I in trouble because I used your razor this morning?"

"_What_?" Mark and Rory said at the same time.

Tristan shrugged at his partner. "I wanted to see what it was like."

"And?"

He thoughtfully rubbed his face with his hand. "I didn't _hate_ it."

Rory shook her head. "Get your own!"

"So that isn't why you're here?" he asked.

"No."

"Oh, I see. You must want the exclusive interview before anyone else."

"As a matter of fact, I do," she said, slowly turning the pages in her notebook to find a blank sheet. "Everyone in the newsroom was watching with rapt attention. They were especially impressed when that black Camaro showed up out of nowhere." She shifted her eyes toward the car as she said it. "Some people even applauded when the arrest was made." That was a fib—she hoped.

"Really?"

She nodded. "Oh yeah. You two are the beloved protagonists of the day."

"I love it when you use literary terms," Tristan said.

"But not _everyone_ at the _Daily News_ thought it was 'so cool'," she said using air quotes.

"No?"

She shook her head with pursed lips. "One person in particular thought it was really stupid and dangerous."

"She shouldn't have worried. I was wearing my seat belt. It's safety first with me."

"Whose idea was it to join the pursuit?"

"What's that now?"

"Whose idea was it?" she asked slowly.

Tristan looked to his partner for help.

"Oh, uh, mine. It was my idea," Mark said.

"Walk me through it," Rory started, all business, ready to take notes. "You were downtown this morning to testify in court."

"Right. When we were finished, we were going to head back to the precinct, but we heard about a hot pursuit on the radio. So I suggested that we assist—since we were in a good position to catch up."

"You know, taking the Brooklyn Bridge to meet up with the suspect in the next borough was a stroke of genius. The suspect probably didn't even know you guys were the police, at first. Even _I_ thought that bit was good," Rory said in a complimentary tone. She was giving all of her attention to the dark haired detective.

"Yeah, well, element of surprise and all," he said.

Tristan frowned at the account. He was feeling neglected.

Rory went on, "One of the guys in the newsroom called the whole thing awesome. And the phrase, 'that guy should get laid tonight' was tossed around. So be sure to tell Han—"

"It was _my_ idea," Tristan quickly interrupted.

Rory flashed angry eyes to him. "Of course it was your idea! This has your name written all over it." She glared back at Mark. "Don't lie for him."

He shook his head at Tristan's need to take credit. "I hope you're at least _aware_ that you walked directly into her trap."

"Wait, does this mean no one said I should get laid tonight?"

"Don't worry about it," she said.

He grinned. "So someone _did_ say it. I just want to know what people are saying about me. Call me curious."

"Focus here! Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?" Rory asked Tristan.

"No."

"Then why did you get involved in a high speed chase?"

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "We were in the area."

"You were in court."

"Relax. We had probable cause."

"Someone in _New Jersey_ had probable cause. Do you even know why they were after the guy?"

"I'll read about it in the paper tomorrow." He nodded toward her notebook. "We just thought we'd give the Jersey boys a hand." He leaned in closer to her. "See, I'm a helper."

"You were going a hundred and ten miles an hour! That's _reckless_."

"We were going faster than that," Mark said.

"Shut up," Tristan told him through gritted teeth. "Stupid helicopters." He glanced up at the sky and then shook his head. "I had the situation under control."

"You went over a draw bridge that was going up! You could have ended up in the bay!"

"I had plenty of time. I wasn't going to let a bridge stop me."

"What do you think you are? Some kind of cowboy, out roping cattle at a rodeo? You aren't John Wayne."

"That metaphor would work better if I drove a Mustang," Tristan mused. "But I'll take it. After all, you know what they say about cowboys,"

"No," Rory said. "I don't."

"Save a horse . . ."

She raised a brown, still not following.

"Ride a cowboy," Mark supplied. "Save a horse, ride a cowboy."

She shook her head at Tristan. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"The full list is probably lengthy. But today?" he asked. "I was cooped up in court for three hours."

"So?"

"So when I was set free I needed a shot of adrenaline—and I was all out of hypodermic needles."

"And a high speed chase was the only way to compensate?"

"It was the opportunity that presented itself, so yeah. Some people use drugs to get high, _I_ just like to drive fast."

"You could have gotten seriously hurt."

"Wait a minute. _You_ were the one in the newsroom that thought it was dangerous, weren't you?" He waved a finger at her as he said it. "Were you worried about my safety?" he asked with interest. He was wearing a satisfied grin. He was enjoying this way too much for her liking.

She silently considered him for a moment.

Tristan smirked and tiled his head toward his partner without taking his eyes away from Rory. "Now she's between a rock and a hard place. She'll have to admit—in public, with witnesses—that she likes me and wants me around. And she'd rather not do that."

"_I_ wouldn't want to admit that out loud," Mark said. His cell phone buzzed and he stepped away to answer.

"Listen here, little lady," Tristan told Rory firmly. He shoved his thumbs in his belt loops and took a step closer to her. "_I'm_ the sheriff in this town. Let this be a lesson to all. If you run, one way or another, I'm going to get you," he said, his eyes glittering in the bright sun. "And you can quote me on that."

"I am not quoting you. You just ripped off Blondie."

"Suit yourself."

"Can't you at least act embarrassed that I'm here yelling at you in front of all your colleagues and the feds?"

"I don't really know those Jersey guys. And the feds are just going to act like they did all the work, so I definitely don't care what they think."

"What about the NYPD? _They_ know you."

"Yeah, and some of them know _you_ too. You think I'm embarrassed that you came all the way here in the middle of your work day just because you don't want harm to befall me?" he asked. "Sorry Doll Face, but I'm only flattered by your concern." He smiled at her.

Rory just crossed her arms and scowled.

"Besides, you're on fire today. Why would I want to put you out?"

Mark returned then. "Speaking of fire, we have to go to one. Fifty-second hundred block of Sixth Avenue."

"Fifty-second?" Tristan asked with furrowed brows.

"Yeah, Midtown."

"That could be your building," Rory said.

Tristan nodded and looked back at her. "I'd stay to continue this conversation—I'm loving the topic—but duty calls. Busy day," he said as he backed toward his car and put his sunglasses back on. "We should definitely meet up later though. Maybe we can make some bad decisions together. That is, unless you have to close the library tonight. Was your hair like that this morning?" he asked, checking out her up do.

"It was hot. I put it up," she answered evenly.

He nodded and grinned some more. "It looks good."

"Come on, Captain America, let's get a move on," Mark said.

Tristan turned to him. "You know that's not the super hero I like to compare myself to." He turned back to Rory. "Later."

She watched him get into his car and drive away. Then she looked around to see what was left of the scene. She had as much information as she cared to get. She rolled her eyes at the nagging desire to go check out the fire. She took her phone out.

"Jimmy, I got the story. I'm heading to a homicide in Midtown."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Twenty minutes later, Rory walked down the sidewalk of a familiar neighborhood. There were fire trucks, a few ambulances, and several police vehicles crowding Sixth Avenue. From what she could tell, the apartment building across the street from Tristan's had caught fire. The fire had been put out, but smoke clung to the already hot air.

Rory recognized some of the officials surveying the scene. She wasn't sure how close they would let her get, though. She was contemplating this when a familiar face caught her attention.

"What are you doing here?" Kyle asked as he approached her. "Did Jimmy assign both of us? I thought I was covering the fire on my own," he said anxiously.

"Don't worry, I'm not here for the fire," she answered. "Well, not really. There was a homicide."

"Oh. That makes sense. I thought I saw your boyfriend go in a little while ago. Was it really him in the high speed chase?" Kyle asked.

"Yup," she answered flatly.

"Man, he's so cocksure. You're really lucky."

Rory raised a brow at that.

"I mean because you get to hang out with him—and he's just so self-assured. You know, a real tough guy," Kyle said quickly. "I don't like guys."

"Sure."

"I don't!"

"Okay, Kyle. I believe you. Really. Have you talked to anyone yet?"

"Yeah. I got a few statements from some of the people who live in the building. They said it was an apartment on the sixteenth floor that caught fire."

"Do they know who the apartment belongs to?"

He shook his head. "No. But there's a list of residents next to the door. If I could get closer I might be able to find out."

Rory craned her neck and shielded her eyes as she looked up at the tall building. She looked across the street to the other building and got an idea.

"You stay here and wait for some of the firemen to finish up." She started to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Kyle asked.

"To try to get a better view."

Rory hid her press credentials in her light burgundy blouse and headed for the apartment building across from the crime scene. She got about ten feet away when a uniformed officer she didn't know stopped her.

"You can't come over here, ma'am."

"I live there," she answered, holding up a key that she produced from her purse.

"Oh. All right," he said, stepping out of her way.

Rory continued into the building and took the elevator to the twelfth floor. She let herself in and dropped her purse on the small dining room table before heading for the living room. She found the remote control on the coffee table and turned on Tristan's flat screen TV. She turned it to a local news station that had the breaking story. It was actually one of the channels that had provided a helicopter to broadcast the high speed chase an hour earlier.

She listened to the brief report before turning the television off and walking to the window. She could see over into some of the apartments across the street. She lifted her eyes until she saw a window with firemen passing by. Kyle was right, she counted and saw that the fire was on the sixteenth floor. She couldn't see too much, just people walking from room to room of the apartment, so she turned away from the window.

She heard her stomach growl and remembered that she hadn't eaten lunch yet. So she went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She frowned at the contents. There wasn't much, for one thing. And for another, the little that _was_ there had reached their expiration dates. She started taking things out and throwing them in the trash. When she was finished she was still hungry, but decided to get back outside. She didn't want Kyle to steal her story, after all.

When she was back out on the street, she took advantage of her location inside the barricade and tried to blend in. It would probably work better if she was wearing some kind of uniform or a shiny badge to appear more important. She watched as rescue personnel walked in and out of the building. After a little while, Tristan came out of the building. He looked around, squinting in the sunlight. When he caught sight of Rory he took a few steps closer to her.

"Have you seen the fire marshal?" he asked as he rolled up his sleeves.

She looked around and pointed to the man Tristan was looking for. He jogged off in the direction indicated and Rory was left alone again. That is, until Kyle walked over a moment later.

"How did you get over here?" she asked him.

"I'm stealthy."

"Ah."

"What about you?"

"I pretended to live there," she answered, nodding back at the building behind them.

"Weren't they suspicious when you couldn't get in?"

"Nope," Rory said, holding up the key.

"Oh."

Tristan walked back over then. "There're two of you," he observed, eyes moving from Kyle to Rory.

"Kyle is here for the fire. I'm here for the homicide."

"Okay. Go find a fireman to talk to," he said, tilting his head as a hint for the young reporter to go away.

"But don't you think we could both cover the homicide?" Kyle asked Rory. "Since it happened because of the fire?"

"Who told you that?" the detective asked suspiciously.

"Oh, well, no one. I just assumed—since there was a fire," Kyle stuttered.

"Terrific, you guys are writing about your assumptions now," Tristan said dryly. "Aren't you supposed to _get_ the facts before you distort them?"

Rory nodded. "That's how Mark Twain put it."

"No, I just thought—and someone said it was arson. That's why _you're_ here, right? But—"

"Why don't we wait until we get back to the newsroom and let Jimmy decide who'll cover what," Rory cut in. "There's the fire marshal now. See if you can get a statement from him. I'll get the police quotes."

"Fine," Kyle muttered, a bit crestfallen as he left the couple.

Rory's eyes followed her young colleague. "Yeah, _I'm_ covering the homicide." She turned back to Tristan. "You probably shouldn't alienate your fan base though."

"It'll be all right. I still have you. That's all I need."

She raised a doubtful brow. "You think you have me? After that stunt you pulled earlier?"

"You're still on that?" he asked. "Your racing over immediately afterward leads me to believe that yes, I _do_ have you."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He wasn't going to let her live that one down. "That doesn't mean I'm a fan."

He nodded. "I know, it's a paradox. I'm willing to make a deal with you though. I'll admit that I was stupid and thoughtless if you admit that you enjoy my presence in your life and want to keep me there."

She didn't say anything.

He stared at her evenly and then shrugged nonchalantly. "Fine. Later then. I can wait." He examined the opening of her shirt and pulled her credentials out from hiding. "Going undercover today?"

She shrugged. "I can be a pedestrian," she said, edginess fading from her voice

"Sure."

"I thought Ash Wednesday was in the spring."

Tristan looked confused. "It is. Why?"

"You have soot on your forehead," she said, reaching up to wipe it away. She brushed some out of his hair, too. He lifted his head back up when she was finished. "So, arson?" she asked, taking her notebook and pen out again

"Mm-hmm."

"It's too hot to be setting a fire," she commented. "What did you find up there?"

"A dead body on the bed."

"Male or female?"

"Female."

"Can I get a name?" She glanced at him.

He shook his head in response.

"Is it because you're being difficult on purpose today?"

"No," he replied. "But that usually is a fun tactic. I think I make it too easy for you sometimes anyway."

"So then, you can't say or you don't know?"

"Both at the moment," he said, tilting his head over to the entrance of the building, where Mark was speaking with a couple of men in suits.

"Those guys aren't homicide detectives, are they?" she asked, turning back.

"No. Sex crimes."

"Oh."

"They're helping us out. We don't know if it's their case yet. It'll depend on the ME's report."

"But something makes you guys think it could be?"

Tristan nodded. "The victim was tied to the bed by her wrists."

"Kinky," Rory said absentmindedly, and then quickly added, "Oh sorry. That was insensitive. There's a dead girl. No ID?"

"Nope. And she was burned pretty badly. So, Jane Doe for now."

"But the apartment belongs to someone, right?"

"Yeah."

"Who?" She didn't receive a response. She glanced at him expectantly. "Fine. I'll figure it out some other way."

"That won't mean the apartment belongs to the body. You still can't print a name, anyway. Not if it's a sex crime."

"People's addresses are in public records."

"You won't be content until you get me into trouble, will you?"

"Please. Like you need my help in that department. And you won't get in trouble if I credit a non-police source. You can't be held responsible for _my_ actions."

"Yeah, we'll see about that."

"So what did the apartment look like?"

"Blackened."

"Does the fire marshal know what started the fire?"

"A flammable substance poured around the bed—not sure what yet."

"Was there so much fire damage that there wasn't _anything_ with a name on it?"

"That's what was weird about it. It was furnished, but it didn't look like anyone was living there."

"What do you mean?"

"There weren't any personal affects. It looked cleaned out."

"I see, so it looked like _your_ apartment."

"When were you there last?"

"Earlier. I went up to see if I could get a better view of the sixteenth floor."  
>"Crafty," he complimented.<p>

"Yeah, I try. I emptied your refrigerator while I was there. Everything was expired."

"What will I eat now?"

She gave him a blank look. "Stuff that _won't_ give you food poisoning—probably from my refrigerator."

"Ah-ha, so you admit that I'll be at your place to eat. You like me around. I knew it."

"I didn't say that."

"It was close enough. But don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

"They wouldn't believe you if you did."

"The feds and those Jersey cops might."

"Well, I don't know them, so I don't care what they think."

"Good. That makes two of us."

"So what did the building manager say?" she asked, getting back to the matter at hand.

"You'll have to talk to Mr. Furley yourself. Are you even allowed to print quotes that you attain by hearsay?"

Rory looked at him piteously. "You must be getting our respective industries mixed up."

He nodded in agreement. "You're right. My mistake."

"I should probably try to get back to the newsroom before Kyle does. I think he's chomping at the bit to take this whole story. He probably wanted to cover the high speed chase, I should have let him. He'd have been all over it—and you."

"I'm not comfortable with that."

"Don't be picky. You should take what you can get."

"I obviously got better," he said, eyeing her pointedly. "And I don't intend to settle for less."

"You wouldn't necessarily be settling with Kyle. I'm pretty sure he has a man-crush on you. And I think it runs deep."

Tristan shook his head. "The feeling isn't mutual." He looked over to his partner and the other detectives. "I should get back."

He started to back away, but thought of something and stopped with a concerned expression on his face. "Hey, you don't have a thing for firefighters, do you?"

"Why?"

He shrugged. "We're just rivals, you know—as far as keeping New York City safe goes."

She turned so she could get a good look at a few firemen not too far away. It was an extra-long look, for Tristan's benefit. She turned back to him and paused for dramatic affect. "No. You fulfill all my American hero whims."

He nodded. "Good."

Rory watched him leave for the second time that day before she turned to go back to her own job.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"I have the details about the body found in the fire," Rory told her editor later that afternoon. She was standing in the doorway of his office.

"Good," he said, looking up. "Kyle is typing up his report. Your stuff can be added in."

"How about I add his stuff into _my_ story?"

"Because I sent _him_ to cover the fire."

"And _I_ went to cover the homicide."

"Well, it's all one story now."

"Not necessarily. We have to wait for the autopsy report from the medical examiner."

"Come on, a body was found in a fire. Two and two don't make five, even if Big Brother says so."

"The body was tied to the bed."

"Kinky."

"Jimmy, a woman is dead," Rory reprimanded—hypocritically. "And it wasn't an accidental fire. Someone set it. That makes it a homicide. I found the story, so it should be mine. And I can write it on my own."

James got up from his desk and headed out to the newsroom. Rory kept up at his side. "When you left, I thought it was to do bodily harm to your boyfriend. I didn't know you were going to follow him to his next job."

"It doesn't matter how I found the story, only that I _did_ find it."

"Hey, I'm not telling you not to write about it. If you want to stay with the investigation, that's fine. In fact, I encourage it. You'll get the intimate details anyway. But Kyle is on the story with you."

"Why?" Rory demanded as James paused at various reporters' desks to drop off marked up articles for corrections.

"Because I'm still the editor and I assigned him to the fire. That includes anything that came out of it—including a dead body."

"But Kyle is a baby rookie. A homicide is serious."

"He isn't an intern anymore. And you never had a problem with him before. Especially when he was picking up the slack over the summer, when you cut back your hours."

"That's because I was in grad school. But I finished two weeks ago, remember?"

"I do. Your raise should go into effect this month."

"It also means my hours are back to normal. So I don't need help. In fact, I have an advanced degree now. I should be getting _more_ responsibility, not less."

By this time, the two had circled around the newsroom and they stopped at Kyle's small work station.

"Kyle, when you're finished with what you have, send it to Rory. She'll add what she knows about Erika Hart's homicide."

"Erika Hart?" Rory asked. She turned to Kyle. "It's Jane Doe."

"The apartment belongs to Erika Hart. I found someone who knew."

James smiled. "See, young Kyle shows promise."

"We still can't print the name. They don't know if the body belongs to the apartment owner. _And_ it might be a sex crime. Those victims have a right to their privacy."

"We can say the fire was in Hart's apartment if someone confirmed it," James said.

"But the homicide has to be separate," Rory insisted.

James considered her for a moment. "Fine. Write a separate report. But you're still both on the case."

Rory glowered as she headed back to her desk. She sat down and picked up her office phone. She dialed and moved her computer mouse to bring it out of hibernation.

"DuGrey," Tristan answered.

"Erika Hart," Rory said flatly.

"Congratulations," he said, sounding distracted.

"Yeah. Whatever."

"What's wrong? You sound like your fish died. Your fish didn't die did they?" he asked quickly, now giving his full attention.

"No," she said with a frown. "And if they did, I would just replace them like usual."

"Still, if they both died on the same day, it would be tragic."

"Well if it ever happens, I'll be sure to swap them without you knowing."

"I appreciate that. So what's the matter?"

"I have to share the investigation with Kyle since he was assigned to the fire."

"Oh. That's not so bad. You get an underling to boss around."

Rory shook her head. "I don't think that's the deal. He found out Hart's name. I tried to stop him and Jimmy from printing it."

"Why? You were going to find it anyway."

"Yeah, but I wasn't going to assume that she's the dead body."

"I guess you can't expect _all_ journalists to care about the facts."

"I guess."

"Cheer up. It'll be okay," Tristan said consolingly. "I have to go."

"All right. See you later."

"Will I?"

"Won't you?"

"Your choice."

She could tell by his voice that he was grinning on the other end. She rolled her eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh. "Yes."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Around five thirty that evening, Tristan was leaning against the side of his car, which was parked on the street in front of the New York _Daily News_. He glanced at his watch before looking back at the entrance. A couple of Channel 13 news reporters walked out of the building. Tristan crossed his arms unassumingly and turned away slightly. He hoped they wouldn't see and subsequently recognize him from his day's adventures.

After a few minutes, Rory walked out. She looked perplexed by his presence. "What are you doing here?" she asked when she stopped a foot away from him.

"I brought you something." He reached through the open car window to retrieve an iced coffee from a cup holder and handed it to her.

"What's this for?"

"Can't a guy just bring his girlfriend a cold beverage after a long hot day at work?"

"Not when you're the guy and today is the day," she said, taking a sip of the coffee.

He grinned and put his hands in his pockets.

"Half of my troubles arose today because the crazy person I'm in love with will probably drive me to pull all my hair out. Does this pick-me-up have anything to do with _that_?" she asked.

"I'm sure you'll make a very pretty bald girl," he said. "But, you got me. I'm trying to mend some fences."

"Atoning already? It isn't even Yom Kippur yet."

"Or sunset. But I thought I'd get a head start."

"What is it you're making amends for, exactly?" she asked.

"You know, the thing from earlier today."

"The thing? Can you be more specific?" she asked. "Apparently you like women's razors, so there are a couple things you could be referring to."

"That was a onetime thing. I forgot that I need a new one. I'll just do without tomorrow, I promise," he said. "But more importantly, I apologize for joining a high speed chase just for the excitement. I was showing off, really."

She silently scrutinized him as she took a long sip. She shook her head. "You aren't sorry about that. You had fun. A lot of fun."

He nodded. "That might be true. I do like a good chase. But I _am_ sorry that you worried about me and went all the way to Brooklyn just to tell me so." He took a step closer to her.

She shook her head again. "You enjoyed that too."

"That's _absolutely_ true. In fact, looking back, it was probably my favorite part. Seriously, it was kind of the best day ever."

"I'm glad I could contribute."

"Me too," he said as he opened the passenger side door of his car. "Care to get out of here?"

"Depends, are you going to keep it under ninety miles an hour?"

"Cross my heart and—"

"You probably shouldn't finish that sentence, you came pretty close today," she said as she stepped between the car and the open door. She stopped to look at him. "You're dangerous."

"Never forget," he replied, putting his sunglasses on. "So where did we land on the whole 'that guy should get laid' thing?"

"Don't press your luck," she said as she got into the car.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The next day, Rory was at her desk in the newsroom. She was on the phone, speaking with Edward Waters, the manager of the apartment building with the dead body.

"Does Erika Hart still live on the sixteenth floor?" she asked.

"Yes. But her lease is up at the end of this month," Mr. Waters answered.

"Has she informed you of whether or not she's renewing her lease?"

"Yes, and I've documented that she's not."

"Oh, so she might have been in the process of moving out then."

"Uh, yeah, probably."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Oh, a couple weeks ago, I guess."

"Do you have her forwarding address?"

"No. She still has the keys to the apartment, too."

"So legally, the apartment is still hers."

"Right."

"Does she have any roommates?"

"No. It was just her."

"What about a boyfriend?"

"Yeah, I've seen her with a guy."

"Do you know his name?"

"No."

"Do you know if he had a key to her apartment?"

"I don't know. And she could've had more made—other than the two that she got when she moved in."

"True. All right. Thanks for taking the time to speak with me, Mr. Waters."

"Sure. Are we finished then?"

"Yes. Can I call if I think of any other questions?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess so."

"Thanks," Rory said before ending the call. After making a few notes, she continued her previous task of sipping her morning coffee and checking her e-mail.

A few minutes later, James walked over. "Gilmore, you're going to do a piece for the Health section," he told her.

"What? Why?"

"Because you want more to do, so here it is."

"So you're loaning me out to another section? Trading me—like a baseball card?"

"Come on now, you're a person. I'm trading you like a baseball _player_." He started to walk away.

Rory got up to follow. "So that's it then? I'm out and Kyle's in?"

"I'm not really trading you. You're still on the story. You're just pinch-hitting for another section."

"I don't even know what that means. Are we talking sports or health? Because I'm no good at either."

"You'll be fine."

"But I don't know anything about health. If you knew anything about how I was raised, you would know that. Eating habits? Horrible. Exercise? I don't even know the meaning of the word. I'm the worst person for the job."

"You're good at researching though. And talking to people. So find someone in the health field and talk to them."

"That's not the problem. I can find someone in the health field, easy."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that you're trying to assign me to a different beat when I already have one."

"I'm not _trying_ to assign you. I already did."

"Don't I get a say in it?"

"Nope. And it's not permanent. Unless you want it to be."

"I _won't_ want it to be. I want to stay on _my_ beat and write _my_ article."

"You must be really attached to that boyfriend of yours, to be throwing such a fit over that story. Didn't your mother teach you to share?"

"I'm not throwing a fit and isn't about him. I just want to do the job I've been doing for five years. The one I've been doing _well_ for five years."

"You're _still_ going to be doing it. Geez, since when are you so against trying new things?"

"I'm not against new things."

"Good. I want you to pitch me your idea for a health article by the end of the day Monday."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that afternoon, the detectives were in Erika Hart's apartment, looking around at the burned rubble. They were searching cabinets and closets for a flammable liquid container. Tristan's cell phone buzzed and he took it out of his pocket to answer.

"Newsroom," he said.

"Now I'm just confused," Rory said on the other line. "Congratulations."

"Thank you. What did I do?"

"Well, it's not what _you_ did, it's what the murderer _didn't_ do."

"You've talked with the medical examiner, I take it."

"Yup."

"You know how she was killed too, then."

"I do. It wasn't the fire. She was smothered before that."

"Mm-hmm."

"Couldn't it still classify as a sex crime?"

"How?"

"You know."

"No. Tell me." His tone was innocent enough, but his lips curved into a small smile.

"There could have been a miscommunication over a safe word."

"I can't believe you, Mary. So naughty."

"You knew where I was going. You just had to hear me say it, didn't you?"

"Yes," Tristan confessed. "If it was an accident, then setting the fire was overkill."

"That's true."

"But you're still right. The other detectives are on speed dial, just in case we need to consult with them."

"So other than that the investigation is all yours, huh?"

"Looks that way."

"Lucky."

"Kyle is still cutting into your story?"

"Yes. And it gets worse. Jimmy assigned me a story for the health beat."

"Does he know you—"

"At all?" Rory interrupted. "Apparently not. I have to come up with an idea, too."

"Just give Paris a call. She'll be able to help you out."

"That was my plan."

"Don't tell her I said it or anything, but she can be pretty useful."

"Your secret is safe with me," she said. "So, Jane Doe is still Jane Doe?"

"Yes. According to Erika Hart's employer, she's on vacation through the weekend. And no one has reported her missing."

"All right. Well, I mostly needed to vent, but I'm better now."

"Glad I could lend an ear."

"I'll let you go," Rory said before they both hung up.

Tristan turned back to his partner. "You know, if you and Hannah are still looking for a place to live, this place might not be so bad—after the fire damage is cleaned up, of course."

"Finding real estate in Manhattan may be a pain in the ass, but I think we'll pass on the apartment where a dead body was found."

"Afraid of hauntings?"

"Yes. That's the only problem," Mark answered dryly.

"It's a shame too. If you lived here, we could car pool in the mornings."

"How would that work, exactly?"

"Well see, we'd both get in my car and then I would drive us to work," Tristan said slowly. "We'd ride together just like we do all day, except we'd start out here rather than meet up at the precinct first. Come on now, use the brain I know the Wizard gave you."

"What I meant was, how would we car pool from _here_? That would indicate that you actually live across the street," Mark said, nodding to the window that faced Tristan's building.

"I do live there."

"_When_ was the last time you lived there—physically?"

Tristan thought for a moment. He opened his mouth to answer, but frowned and stopped to think a little longer.

"There's my point. You don't live there."

"I _pay_ to live there."

"No, you're paying for a safety net. And as far as my living arrangements go, I think Hannah is just going to move in after we're married. My apartment will be fine for a while."

"How has she not been stabbed yet, living in the south Bronx? I can't believe you let her live there."

"She'll be moving in soon enough."

"Yeah, but not until after the wedding. Who does that anymore? You're so old fashioned."

"Well, not everyone is as modern as you. But _I_ manned up. So we'll be doing the real thing, not playing house. See, we're adults."

"That sounded pointed."

"It was meant to be."

"What are you imply—"

"Excuse me, are you two detectives?" a woman asked.

Tristan and Mark turned to see a woman in her late twenties walk into the apartment. She had light blonde hair and had a fresh tan.

"Yes, can we help you?" Stevenson answered.

"Yes. I'm Erika Hart and this is my apartment. I just got back into town this morning. Someone from work called me to ask if I was dead."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A little while later, Tristan placed a cup of coffee down in front of Erika Hart as he sat down next to his partner. They had brought her back to the precinct for questioning.

"We noticed you don't have much in your apartment, besides furniture," Mark started.

"That's because I've moved out. My lease is up at the end of August. I already moved in with my boyfriend. I didn't want to put off the hassle for when I got back from vacation, so I got it out of the way beforehand."

"Have you turned in your keys then?" Tristan asked.

"No," she said slowly. "But that's just a technicality. I'll turn them in. I was just going to wait until after I made sure I got everything out. I didn't want to turn them in just to realize I forgot something."

"That makes sense," Tristan said. He thought she sounded a little defensive though. So he pressed the issue. "How many keys to the apartment did you get when you moved in?"

"Two."

"Did anyone have the extra copy?"

"Well, I gave my brother one. But he said he lost it a couple months ago," she added quickly.

"We'll need his name and contact information."

"He said he lost his key though," she persisted.

"We still want to talk with him," Mark said. "Did he ever let himself in when you weren't around?"

"No," she said firmly.

"Did anyone else have a key?" Tristan asked.

"My boyfriend used to. But he gave it back when I moved in with him. It's not like we're going to go hang out in an apartment that I don't officially live in anymore."

"When did he give it back?"

"I moved in to his place a couple weeks ago, so that's when he gave it back."

"So, there were three keys to the apartment. You have two now and one is missing?"

"Right. Is that all you need?"

"One more thing. Do you know who this is?" Mark asked, showing her a picture of their burned victim.

Erika looked down at the picture and cringed at the severity of the burns. "No. I have no idea who that is."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that evening, Rory was in her bedroom, staring into her closet with furrowed brows. Her phone rang from the dresser so she moved to answer.

"Hello?"

"Rory, quick, tell me you're dying and that you need me by your side immediately."

"I'm not dying. Get ready for dinner," she sternly told her mother. She checked her watch. "In fact, you should be ready and en route. Besides, I like to think that if I was dying, Grandma and Grandpa would want to come too."

"Yeah. They like you," Lorelai reasoned.

"Tell them hi for me."

"Sure thing. So, big plans tonight?"

"Nope, just hanging out," Rory answered. "Actually, I'm reorganizing my closet right now."

"You always did know how to have a good time."

"Mm-hmm. But I'm having difficulty," she said, frowning at the clothes in front of her.

"Why? Too much clothes and not enough closet?"

"Yes. But it isn't all _my_ clothes." She paused in thought for a moment. "I think Tristan is moving in."

"Oh. Wow. That's a big step."

"I guess. It _has_ been almost two years. It's not like we just met."

"Yeah. But still, I didn't know you decided to move in together."

"Neither did I. But it looks like he's close to finishing a stealth operation. His things have slowly but surely migrated to the Upper East Side. And I saw the inside of his refrigerator yesterday. It was the _Grapes of Wrath_ in there."

"Maybe it's more convenient. Is your apartment closer to his work?"

"No, it's farther. He has to get up earlier to maintain his impeccable punctuality."

"In that case, it might just be because you're there. I'm starting to think that he likes you."

"Maybe," Rory said. "I'd be stupid to kick him out. He's too good at household chores."

"Well sure, he has to earn his keep somehow."

"Yeah, he's a little neurotic though. He won't go to bed if there are dirty dishes in the sink."

"That's weird."

"I know. I think he might have military school nightmares if things aren't all in their place."

"I guess everyone has to be weaned off the maid somehow."

"Military school may have been a harsh punishment, but I swear by it," Rory said. "And you know what else? When he makes coffee in the morning, it's really good—suspiciously good."

"Suspicious how?"

"Well, you know how Luke's coffee is the best?"

"Yes." Lorelai gasped. "You are not going to tell me that Tristan's is better. I didn't raise you to be blasphemous."

"Oh, I would never. I'm not saying his is better, but it's almost as good as."

"Whoa. Almost as good as? That's serious."

"I know. Do you think Luke told him his secret? I've always believed that he needs a location in Manhattan."

"No. He likes you, but he doesn't reveal his secrets. He's like you with sources."

"Hmm. Maybe Tristan just watched closely."

"That could be it. Still, we better not tell Luke."

"Good idea," Rory said. "Hey, you guys haven't come to visit in a while. Why don't you come down for dinner some time?"

"All right. When is good for you? Our schedule is wide open."

"How about next Saturday?"

"That's no good for us, we have plans."

"What about the Saturday after that?" Rory asked grimly.

"I think that will work."

"Okay, we'll see you then."

"But just a warning, if I don't get picked up by the Cash Cab this time, I _will_ give up on New York City."

"Do you have any idea how many cabs there are in Manhattan alone?"

"That's not an excuse."

Rory heard a noise coming from her living room. "I think Johnny Law is at the door now."

"Oh, I guess I'll go then. You're sure you aren't dying?"

"Positive."

"Darn. I'll talk to you later," Lorelai said before they both hung up.

Rory sat her phone back on the dresser as Tristan walked in.

"Hey," he greeted, giving her a kiss. "Waiting for me in the bedroom? I like it."

She shook her head and went back to her closet. "No. I'm trying to make room for what I assume can only be your last two suits and four dress shirts."

"That sounds like a pretty close estimate."

"I think I saw cobwebs in your apartment yesterday."  
>"You're exaggerating."<p>

"I'm not. I said hi to Charlotte and her kids."

"I have a solution to the closet problem. Would you like to see?" he asked.

"I'd love to."

Tristan walked across the hall to the spare bedroom and Rory followed. She watched him open the drawers of a tall dresser. They were all full of books. He looked at her with raised brows.

"I don't see the problem," Rory said.

"Have you heard of shelves?"

She shrugged. "Overrated."

"You're weird."

"That's probably good, since you tend to get bored easily."

"True," he said as he closed the drawers.

They both walked down the hall and heard a knock at the door. Rory went to answer and found her friend and neighbor on the other side. "Hey Lucy," she said, moving to let her in.

"Hi. I was wondering if you guys would come out to dinner with me and Philip tonight."

"Phillip?" Rory asked. "The guy you met on the subway last week?"

"Yes. He's nice and I really like him," Lucy insisted. "He could be the one."

"You think you met the one on the subway?" Tristan asked doubtfully.

Lucy put her hands at her hips defiantly. "Not everyone can meet at romantic places like _crime scenes_."

"That was a really pointed remark," Rory commented.

Tristan nodded. "Those have been going around today." He turned back to Lucy. "Why do you need us there if you think he's the one? Extra people will kill the mood."

"I just want another opinion. You know, from objective people who care about me."

"What about Olivia?" Rory asked suspiciously. "You've known her longer."

"Yes, but I want a male opinion."

"Uh-huh," Tristan said, not convinced.

"Men know guys better than girls. They can distinguish the good guys from the riff raff."

"How about I just do a quick background check for you?" he offered.

"You would do that? For me?" Lucy asked eagerly.

He turned to Rory expectantly.

"What?" she asked. "Do you need my permission or something?"

"Oh no. I'm just wondering if you're okay with me abusing police resources for the safety of your friend here."

"So you _do_ need my permission."

"I don't see it that way."

"Go ahead. I'm not feeling very eager to uncover the corruption of 'the man' tonight."

Tristan went to retrieve his laptop and they all went to the kitchen. He asked Lucy for Phillip's last name and ran him through the system. While they waited, he and Lucy watched Rory take things out of her refrigerator and set it all on the counter.

"Is this dinner?" Lucy asked, looking at the week's leftovers.

Tristan tilted his head toward her. "I think she's on a one-woman mission to clean out all the refrigerators in Manhattan. Be warned, yours could be next."

"Noted," Lucy said. "By the way, we all watched the high speed chase yesterday at work. They were all jealous that I know you."

Tristan glanced at the refrigerator, where Rory was standing, and put a finger to his lips. "Shh." He looked back at his computer screen and gave a thumb's up. "No arrests or convictions."

"Thank goodness. What did we do all those years without you?" Lucy asked.

"Apparently you dated a lot of riff raff."

"Never again," she said, heading for the door. "Thanks Tristan. Have a good night," she said as she left the apartment.

"Just because someone has been arrested doesn't mean they're a shady character," Rory said.

"I agree," Tristan said as he closed his laptop and sat down on a bar stool. "In fact, when I'm at work, I just go over to the holding cell if I feel like making new friends."

"Very funny, Harvard. Maybe you should have been a comedian."

"Nah," he said, taking her by the hand and pulling her over to sit on his lap. "Comedians don't go to crime scenes."

"So?"

"So, crime scenes are very romantic places to meet girls."

"The weird ones, right?"

He nodded. "Those are the best ones."


	2. Been There Lately

**Title**: Ain't Life Grand

**Chapter 2**: Been There Lately

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: Thanks for the reviews!

_Where thou art - that - is Home. –Emily Dickinson_

**Been There Lately**

On Saturday morning, Tristan walked down the hallway to the kitchen, where Rory was already sitting at the island. She had been woken up an hour earlier by the ringing of her cell phone. She had an elbow propped up onto the counter so she could rest her head in her hand as she listened to the caller.

"Okay, I'll look into that, along with the twelve other subjects you suggested," she said tiredly. "And I'll contact the doctors you recommended."

Tristan listened to the one sided conversation as he took a large coffee can out of the pantry and opened the top of the coffee maker. He generously scooped in some coffee grounds before going to the sink to fill the pot with water.

"Yes, I promise to do plenty of research. . . How about I write the article and then send it to you before I submit the final copy. . . Great, I thought it was a good idea too."

Tristan gave Rory an amused look and she rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"You know what, Paris?" she said into the phone. "You've been a lot of help, but I need to go. Tristan just walked in and I think he's choking on something. I should go see if he needs help . . . Yes, I know about the Heimlich," she said impatiently. "Bye."

After she pressed End, she sighed heavily and rubbed her temples with her eyes closed.

Tristan, who had retrieved a couple of mugs, poured them each some of the fresh coffee. "How's Dr. Geller this morning?" he asked kindly.

Rory opened her eyes. "Tightly wound."

"Paris is an old, dear friend of mine. I can't believe you would say that about her."

"Easy for you to say. She didn't wake _you_ up at six thirty on a Saturday."

"She kind of did. I just didn't have to talk to her after," Tristan said. "She gave you some ideas though?"

"Several."

"She's nothing if not thorough."

"Mm-hmm," Rory mumbled as she indulged in a sip. "Have I ever told you that your coffee has gotten really good?"

"You have not."

"Well, it has. What's your secret?"

"No secret, really. I just keep making it stronger," he answered. "It's actually an experiment, to see what your threshold is. One day it's going to be too strong, even for you."

"Nope, I don't think that's ever going to happen. You're only going to make my addiction worse," she said before she thought about it a moment. She pointed at him accusingly. "Are you trying to condition me?"

"How?"

"I'm already addicted to coffee. You're trying to make me associate it with you. And therefore, I will become addicted to _you_," she said dramatically, pointing at him to emphasize her point.

"So an hour is all it takes then, for Paris to addle your brain?" he asked.

"I am not Pavlov, and you are not a dog," she said before frowning in thought. "Wait, reverse those two."

"Have you been drinking, by chance?" he asked suspiciously.

Rory shook her head. "I'm on to you," she said before taking another sip. "Oh yeah, you're a keeper," she muttered happily as she laid her head down on the crook of her arm.

"My plan is working," he said in a low voice, as though he was a villain in a movie.

"What?" she asked, lifting her head back up.

"Nothing," he said with a smile. He looked down at the list of topics Paris had suggested. "I see you have some research in your future."

"Yeah. And I think I'm going to do it today," she said. "Then I'll have the article finished by Monday. It's early, but then Jimmy will have no choice but to give me the whole fire slash homicide story."

"You're such an evil genius."

"Thank you." She snapped her finger. "I just got an idea. I'll go to the medical library at Columbia. I still have my student ID. I'll pretend to be a student."

"Will that work?"

"I'm going to find out. And I don't need to check anything out. I can make copies. Besides, libraries are for everyone."

"Plus, it's your natural habitat. You'll blend right in," he said as he poured them each more coffee.

"So true."

"_I_ have a fun day of missing persons reports ahead of me," he explained.

"Do you know who had the spare key to Erika Hart's apartment?"

"Her brother and her boyfriend."

"Oh, so there were _two_ extra keys."

"Mm-hmm. And one is missing."

"Intrigue."

"Exactly."

"Unless it was just lost and someone found it," she reasoned.

"Someone like the victim?" he asked.

"Yes."

"How would she know that a random key went to a Midtown apartment then?"

"Oh," Rory said, a bit deflated.

"You could be on the right track, though."

"I could?"

He nodded. "Maybe she found or stole it, because she knew what it went to."

"That means she must have known Erika."

"Or one of the other two people who had a key," Tristan said in agreement.

"So I could be right," Rory said with a self-satisfied nod. "I like to be right."

"Uh-huh." He glanced at the time glowing on the microwave. "I should get going."

Rory opened her pantry and grabbed a foil package from a box. "Here, take a Pop Tart."

Tristan took it from her and she followed him to the door. They stopped at a small table where she kept her mail. He picked up his gun belt and put it on over his jeans, followed by his gun.

"Why did you even bring that in here?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I forgot to take it off—in my eagerness to see you. And it's always good to have. You know, for crowd control."

"I'm the only one here," she protested.

"And you're _under control_," he said pointedly.

"Hmm," she said doubtfully. "See you later, alligator." She lifted herself on her toes.

He kissed her. "Bye."

"That isn't the appropriate response."

"But it's the response you're getting." He grinned and kissed her again before leaving the apartment.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan was at his desk later that morning, on the phone with the landlord of the apartment building across the street from his.

"I understand Erika Hart lived alone in her apartment?" he asked.

"Yes," Edward Waters answered.

"Did you happen to see anyone who frequently visited her?"

"There was her boyfriend. But I don't know his name."

"Has he been there at all in the past two weeks?"

"No."

"Did anyone else visit her much?"

"There was another guy who came around sometimes. I think it was her brother," Waters answered.

"Did he ever come around when Erika wasn't there?"

"Yeah. Sometimes."

"Did he always come alone?"

"Not always. There were times that he'd bring some girl."

"Do you know her name?"

"Uh, no."

"What did she look like?"

"Oh, uh, she was pretty. She had really dark long hair, brown eyes."

"Did he ever bring this girl around when his sister was there?"

"Yeah, they'd all be there at the same time once in a while."

"Has he brought her there recently?" Tristan asked.

"Well," Waters said slowly, giving the question some thought. "No, I don't think so."

"All right, thanks for your time, Mr. Waters," Tristan said before hanging up the phone.

He added the newest information to his small notebook and looked up in time to see his partner escorting a man in his mid-twenties into the detective's squad. It was Erika Hart's brother, Paul. Mark led the man to an interrogation room and Tristan followed, though he stopped outside and watched from the window. He pressed a button on the wall so he could hear their conversation

"Do you know why you're here?" Mark asked the man.

"Uh, I guess you're wondering if I know anything about the dead body found in my sister's apartment," Paul answered.

"Yes. So, do you?"

The man shook his head quickly. "No."

"You have a key to Erika's apartment, right?"

"Yeah. Or, I did. I lost it."

"When was the last time you used it?"

"I guess it was about a month ago."

"How often did you go there?"

"Not too often. I'd water her plants and get the mail when she was out of town."

"She was just out of town this past week. Did you go over there?"

"No. She was moved out. There wasn't anything to check."

"Do you live alone?" Stevenson asked.

"Uh, why?" Paul asked with a frown.

The detective shrugged. "Just wondering."

"Oh. No," Paul answered. "I have two roommates."

"That must get crowded. You probably like to get away sometimes."

"Oh, uh. It's not so bad."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Where were you last Thursday at twelve thirty?"

"At work—in Long Island."

The detective got Paul's employment information and rapped up the interview. He then let the gentleman go. Tristan went into the interrogation room and had a seat across from Mark.

"You should have press him on the girlfriend issue," Tristan commented.

"Why? Did a little birdie tell you a conflicting story?"

"Yup. But that's all right. Let him think we believe him for a while."

Mark nodded in agreement. He checked his watch and sighed. "I have to head out early. We're picking out wedding invitations today."

"Fun," Tristan said ironically. "I'll start thinking about who to bring as my plus one."

"Please," Mark said. "You can be _her_ plus one."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A couple hours later, Rory was walking away from the medical library at Columbia University. She had her topic picked out and all the resources she needed to write her article. Thanks to Paris, she even had medical specialists to contact for quotes. She was feeling pretty good about the whole thing, and decided to reward herself with a trip to her favorite on-campus coffee stand. It required a long trek, and it was hot out. But this was coffee, so it would be worth the trip.

She walked past Philosophy Hall and admired the statue of Rodin's The Thinker. She smiled a little at the tall buildings with their towering columns. It wasn't Yale, and she'd finished her graduate program in just a year, but she had enjoyed her time there. Plus, it didn't hurt that it was right in Manhattan—her home away from home. And when she considered it, though she was a transplanted New Yorker, it felt like home now.

When Rory reached the student center, she went in and made a bee line for the coffee kiosk. Since it was Saturday, things were slow and she didn't have to wait.

"Hey Rory," the young man at the counter greeted. He had light brown hair and he was wearing a green apron.

"Hi Freddy," she replied with a friendly smile.

"I didn't think I'd see you around here anymore. What can I get you today?"

She concentrated on the menu on the back wall, but looked back at Freddy with a shrug. "Something cold, surprise me," she answered. "So, you're slinging lattés again this semester?"

"Yeah, it's not glamorous, but it pays the bills," he answered as he took her money and made change.

"Hey, you're very important. I need people like you. Coffee is my life line—you keep me alive."

"Well I'm glad I have such an honorable purpose."

"I mean, don't get too excited. I have a whole team of people keeping me alive, but you're on the list," she said with a smile. "I'll just be over here," she said, pointing to a tall round table over by a large window.

She sat down and put her research on the table. She took her small laptop out of her messenger bag and opened it. She checked her e-mail first and saw that the fire marshal had replied to a message she'd sent Friday afternoon. He provided her with the cause of the fire, so she picked up her phone to get a police update.

"DuGrey," Tristan answered after two rings.

"Did you guys find any alcohol containers in Erika Hart's apartment when you searched it?" she asked without preamble.

"I thought you were writing a health article today."

"I'm getting to it. I'm just multi-tasking at the moment," she explained.

"Oh, so I have to vie for your full attention then?"

"Not at all. Your story is top priority with me," she said smoothly.

"Do you pander to all your sources? Because I'm not sure if I'm okay with that."

"I usually save it for the more difficult ones. I figured you knew that."

"Why did you figure that?"

"Because you're usually the most difficult." She paused for a moment. "I've been rewarding your bad behavior all this time haven't I?"

"It would appear so."

"Hmm, I'll think about that more later."

"Please don't. I think the system works fine the way it is."

"Anyway, getting back to the reason I called—"

"To talk to me."

Rory took a second to gather her patience. "Erika Hart's apartment. Were there any containers that would have held alcohol?"

"There were not."

"Thank you. I will see you later," she said, enunciating slowly for him. She tossed her phone on the table in exasperation. "It's like pulling teeth sometimes, talking to that one."

Freddy brought her coffee over then. She took a sip and then got to work. She made a few calls to the specialists Paris had recommended. A couple hours and three iced mochas later, she finished her article. After she sent the rough draft to Paris, she picked her phone back up and hit the speed dial.

"New York _Daily News_, James West speaking," her editor answered.

"You're so professional when you answer the phone," she complimented.

"Uh, thanks. You sound chipper."

"I am. Partly because I've had six coffee drinks today—"

"Oh dear."

"And partly because I'm finished with my article for the Health section."

"You haven't even pitched me your idea yet."

"I know, I just thought I'd get ahead. And don't worry. My story is excellent. You and all the subscribers will be riveted."

"Great. I can't wait to read it."

"You'll be able to on Monday. I'm just having a medical expert read it first. I also have an update for Thursday's fire story. The cause of fire was alcohol poured around the bed. However, the police didn't find anything in the apartment that would have had alcohol in it," she explained. "I have the quote from the fire marshal. I'll e-mail it to you right now."

"All right," James said. "Kyle is here today, I'll have him write an update."

"Speaking of the young whippersnapper, you'll probably have to assign him to something else next week."

"Why?"

"Well, with my health article finished, I'll need something else to do to occupy my time. And an extra big story is just the thing I need," she said cheerfully.

"Kyle is staying on the story with you," James said in a weary voice.

"Come on, Jimmy. I can do it."

"You know who I'm looking at right now?"

"No, I don't. I'm not in the same room as you. That's why we're using phones to communicate."

"I'm looking at Marie. And she is standing in my office, wanting me to sign off on her last article for the week, because she's leaving for vacation."

"Yes, I know she's going out of town. What does this have to do with me?"

"She usually gives you a hand with research doesn't she?"

"Yes, she's very helpful."

"You might need an extra hand while she's away. Kyle can be that hand."

"Do I get to boss him around, at least?"

"No."

"Then how is he supposed to help?"

"You're both on the story," James repeated. "Do you know anything else about the homicide, by chance?"

"On the record, there were two keys to Erika Hart's apartment," she said as Freddy approached her with an iced mocha in hand. "Off the record, there were three, and one is missing."

"Hmm. They still don't know who it was?"

"No, she's still Jane Doe," she said. "I'm going to have to let you go, Jimmy. I'm ready to start in on my next cup of coffee."

"You have a problem."

"I'm seeking help, really. Think about what I said about finding something else for Kyle to do. Bye," she said quickly before hanging up.

"You look pretty busy," Freddy commented as he sat down across from her.

"I have been." Rory observed that his green apron was gone. "Are you finished for the day?"

"Oh no, I'm just taking a break." He looked at all the medical research on the table. "I thought you were a journalism student when you were here."

"Yes, I am. Or—was. Wow, I am _finished_ with school. I haven't slowed down to think about that. But I never have to take another class again." She frowned.

"You look a little sad about it."

"I like being a student. It's one of the things I'm best at," she lamented.

"You can always come back to take classes for fun."

"Speaking of fun classes, are you going to take that French poetry class?"

"Yeah, next semester. I have other things to worry about for the time being."

"You should definitely take it. Although, I doubt you'll find a study group as good as ours was for French literature."

"That's true. You were a slave driver. Did you even need that class for your degree?"

"No. I took it for fun. That's what summer is for, after all. Having fun."

The young man gave her a deadpanned look.

"What? I said I'm good at being a student."

He just shook his head and looked at some of her research. "Is this for your job?"

"Yes, you should keep an eye out in the _Daily News_ for my health story. It isn't my usual beat, but I think my article will be worthwhile."

"Sure," Freddy said as he stood up. "I should get back to work. My break is over."

"It was nice seeing you again," she said with a smile. "And here's the rest of what I owe you. Keep the change."

"Thanks. Have a good one."

After he had gone, Rory packed up her research and laptop. She was through for the day, and ready to go back home.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A little while later, Rory entered her cool apartment and dropped her messenger bag on the couch. She could faintly hear the strains of Florence and the Machine coming down the hall. She walked to her bedroom and found Tristan lying on the bed. He had changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a grey short sleeve t-shirt. His eyes were closed, but his foot was tapping the air to the beat of the music, so she knew he wasn't asleep.

"You beat me back," she commented.

"Mm-hmm."

"You look clean and everything."

"I showered."

"That'll do the trick. I think I need to do the same. I worked up a sweat hiking to the student center," she explained as she started to undress.

"So it's you that I smell," he teased with a grin.

"Ha ha."

He opened one eye slightly, just enough to peak at her progress. "Why did you go all the way to the student center?"

"To work on my article—that's where I called you from."

"But you were at the library. The perfect place to do work."

"Yes, but the library was missing just one thing."

He sighed. "Let me guess. Coffee?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "You have a problem."

"So I've heard."

"I partially blame myself at this point."

"Me too," she said as she started to leave the room.

"Need any help in there?" he offered.

"No thanks, I think I've got it," she said with a smile.

"Just holler if you change your mind."

Fifteen minutes later she was clean and clothed. She joined him on the bed and scooted close to Tristan's side. She draped an arm over his stomach and fingered a spot on his abs. She traced the scar that was hidden under his shirt.

"I went to my apartment after work a little while ago," he commented as he put his arm around her.

"Yeah? What for?"

"I was looking for this pair of shorts. But they weren't there."

"No. They were already here," she said.

"Mm-hmm. All the stuff I like is here."

"It took you this long to figure it out?"

"Sometimes I'm slow."

"Ah. Hey, you know what I was thinking today?" she asked.

"Probably lots of things."

"Yeah. But specifically, I was thinking that I really like New York."

"So do I. That's why I moved here."

"Me too. I like it so much, I would wear an 'I Love New York' t-shirt all the time if I could."

"But then you'd look like a tourist."

"Exactly. So, since we're fancy New Yorkers now, we should have a lazy New York weekend."

"Should we go to the Empire State Building first—to get in the right state of mind?"

"That isn't necessary, I'm already there. But we could go for a stroll down in Tribeca, maybe eat some pastries. And we could wander into the shops. You don't _have_ to buy me things, but I wouldn't be opposed to it, if you insist on it," she said with a grin.

He laughed lightly. "Sounds like a plan. Would it be all right if we take a New York nap first?"

"Definitely," she said as she snuggled up to him and closed her eyes.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Early Monday morning, Tristan was at the precinct. He was filling out a form at his desk before the briefing, when Mark arrived. He sat down and Tristan looked up at him.

"Next time I think it's a good idea to get into a high speed chase, talk me out of it," he requested before looking back down at the form.

"Why? Is the wife still upset with you about it?"

Tristan shook his head. "No, I smoothed things over last week. I just did _not_ consider the paperwork it would involve." He looked up, with a quizzical expression. "Wait. Did you ask about Rory?"

"No, but that's who you automatically thought I was talking about. So it's all the same to you—apparently."

Before Tristan could respond, their boss, Captain Meyer, yelled from his office. "DuGrey, get in here."

Tristan furrowed his brows as he stood. "Am I in trouble?" he asked Mark.

"It sounds like it."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that morning, Rory was at her own desk, looking at Marie's workspace. Kyle had just walked over and put his notebook on the desk. He sat down and looked around the newsroom, getting acquainted with the view.

"Good morning, Kyle," Rory said politely. She eyed him suspiciously.

"Morning, Rory," he returned.

"What are you doing there, sitting in Marie's place?"

"Jimmy said I could sit here, since she's on vacation all week," Kyle explained. "And since we're working on the same story."

"Oh. How nice of James," Rory said. She craned her neck to look over the computers in the newsroom. She was looking for their editor.

"Hey, I'm going to go get some coffee, do you want some?" Kyle asked as he stood up.

Rory stopped gawking and shrugged. "Sure, I've never been one to turn down coffee," she answered. She watched her colleague leave and reconsidered her feelings of ill-will toward him.

Her desk phone rang and she picked it up after the first ring. "Newsroom," she answered.

"I thought you had respect for what I do," Tristan said in a voice of controlled restraint.

"I do."

"Then I'm going to need you to explain yourself."

"Explain what?"

"Your article in today's paper."

"Why? What does it say?" she asked as she looked around the newsroom. "Does anyone have today's paper?" she asked the people around her.

A woman from a few desks down from her got up to hand her a copy. She turned to the News section and scanned down to the crime reports. She found the article with Kyle and her names—hers being a pseudonym—in the by-line. She skimmed the article quickly. "I found out from the fire marshal how the fire was started. You can't be mad about that."

"Keep reading," Tristan said evenly.

Rory did so. And she frowned at what the article revealed. "Police sources have identified Courtney Rivers as the victim in the fire?" she read.

"According to you."

"What do you mean, 'according to me'? There are two names in the by-line, if you hadn't notice," she pointed out. "Wait a minute, you identified the victim and told Kyle instead of me? I can't believe you would do that. You knew I wanted to cover the whole story," she said angrily. "It's your own fault for telling him if you were expecting him to sit on it for a few days."

"I didn't tell him a damn thing," Tristan countered. "Why would you think I'd talk to _him_? You're the one covering the homicide portion of the story, so I assumed you were the one who wrote it."

"I didn't write it," Rory insisted. "Who would I have heard that from?"

"I don't know. You have ways of getting information."

"This gives credit to a police source. _You_ are my only police source for this story. You know that. This is the first time I've ever seen that name in my life."

"No one _here_ knows who she is either. I got yelled at for twenty minutes this morning—everyone had to wait on us before the briefing. Because when your name is on an article, guess who the captain thinks wrote it, and guess who he thinks told you."

"He's wrong about this one then. You can all come down here and search my desk and computer. _I_ didn't write that. It must have been Kyle. And I don't know who his source is," Rory said.

"Well someone needs to keep him on a shorter leash."

She thought about it a moment and felt more anger. "I can't believe you'd assume that I would do that to you. I've _never_ let a report get published if there was sensitive information. Don't you know I at least tell you to your face before I stab you in the back? Did you even stop to consider any of _that_ before you called to blame me?" she demanded.

She went on before he could answer. "I can't control what other people think about me, but I assumed that _you_ knew me well enough to know that I wouldn't do that." She roughly hung up the phone before Tristan could make a response.

Just then, Kyle returned with their coffee. "Here," he said as he sat her cup on her desk.

"Who's Courtney Rivers?" she snapped at him, pointing to their article.

"She's the dead girl. The one from the fire," Kyle answered, sitting down.

"Who told you?"

"The police."

"When?"

"Over the weekend. Somebody called the newsroom and told me. It was when you weren't here."

"Who was it?" she asked again. "Did this police officer have a name?"

"Yeah. But I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because it's my source. And I can't reveal my sources," Kyle said, a little proud of himself. The declaration obviously made him feel like a real reporter.

"There are only two people working on that case and I know neither one of _them_ told you."

James heard the commotion Rory was making and walked over to his reporters. "What's going on?"

"Kyle says the police confirmed the identity of the dead girl from the fire as Courtney Rivers."

"So?"

"So, they didn't!"

James looked to Kyle. "The police gave you confirmation?"

"Yes."

"Did they say on the record?"

"Yes."

James looked back to Rory. "I don't see the problem."

"The problem is that the people investigating the murder have no idea who Courtney Rivers is, so they couldn't have confirmed that it was her body."

"Hey, if the police department is having communication issues, it sounds like _they_ have a problem, not us." He started to walk away.

Rory followed. "So you aren't going to recant the article?"

"Why would we do that? If the police are having issues, we should call them out on it, not give them a pass. I'd assign you that story, but I'm not sure how unbiased you would be about it."

"I'm not biased," Rory said with a shake of her head. "We don't know if Kyle's source is reliable. We should look into it."

"You don't want to reveal _your_ sources—that's fine. Kyle gets the same treatment."

Rory put her hands at her hips and scowled at the situation—and at anyone she passed on the way back to her desk.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Early that afternoon, Rory was still in the newsroom. She was using the paper's database to look for Courtney Rivers. She was making a list of people to call for statements, when she remembered where the body was found. She picked up her phone and dialed the apartment manager.

"Hi, Mr. Waters. This is Veronica More at the _Daily News_. Is Courtney Rivers one of your tenants?"

"Why do you want to know?" he asked suspiciously. "The police came to ask the same thing."

"She was identified as the body that was found in the fire on the sixteenth floor. I was just wondering if she lived in your building."

"No," he answered firmly. "Is that all?"

"Oh, uh, yeah," Rory said. The line went dead and she looked at her phone, perplexed. "Okay then."

She tapped her pen on the desk as she wondered what to do next. Then she thought about how she was getting the blame for information she hadn't obtained. While it was probably fair of Captain Meyer to think she wrote it, it was _not_ fair for Tristan to agree. Then again, she reasoned, he probably wasn't feeling great after getting in trouble for something he didn't do. It wasn't exactly a good excuse, but neither one of them was at fault for the article.

No, the root of their troubles laid elsewhere. Rory looked over at the desk next to her. Kyle was typing something. She narrowed her eyes at him. Maybe there was a simple solution to finding out who his source was. Maybe someone could scare it out of him.

She stood up. "Come on, Kyle. We're going on a field trip."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Tristan was looking through missing persons reports again. But this time, he had a name to look for. His partner had been interrupted by a phone call a few minutes earlier.

"Couldn't you just tell her no?" Mark asked desperately. "Well, tell her you already have enough bridesmaids." He sighed into the phone. "No, it'll be fine. I'll just find someone," he said before he said good bye and hung up.

He looked over to Tristan, who was concentrating on a report on his desk. "I need a favor."

"No," Tristan said firmly.

"You don't even know what the favor is going to be."

"I have a feeling I _do_. And the answer is no."

"Come on, I need another groomsman."

"See? I did know."

"Hannah just talked to one of her college friends and consequently added a bridesmaid."

"How many is she up to?"

"Seven."

"Good grief. Is she planning a wedding or fielding an ultimate Frisbee team?"

"She's too nice for her own good sometimes."

"That explains why she told you yes," Tristan muttered down at his desk.

"I heard that, and it isn't true."

"Don't you have some cousins back in Kansas you could ask or something?"

"I already asked the family members that I like. I promise to pay you back."

"How?"

"I don't know," Mark said, taking a minute to think. "How many friends does Rory have?"

Tristan shrugged. "A few close ones. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Maybe you'll need me to do the same favor one day," Mark answered.

"For what?"

Mark gave his partner an incredulous look. He shook his head to give himself a mental shake. "Just do this for me. Please."

"This isn't my problem. Don't drag me into your mess."

"It isn't a mess. It's a wedding."

"Same difference," Tristan said, squinting down at the writing in front of him. He couldn't make out the cursive writing very well, so he opened a desk drawer and grabbed his reading glasses.

"Are you one of those damaged people who don't believe in marriage?"

Tristan gave Mark an irritated glance. "No."

But Mark nodded. "That's what it is, isn't it? Your parents split, so now you don't think anyone can make it work. You're damaged goods, aren't you?"

"I had my meltdown over them a long time ago. I'm over it," Tristan said. "I am not 'damaged goods'."

"What's your deal then? Are you afraid of commitment?"

Tristan looked up then, so he could glare at his partner. "I've been in a monogamous relationship for almost two years. What part of that is afraid of commitment?"

"Has Beyoncé taught you nothing?"

"What?" Tristan asked in an annoyed tone.

Mark put up his left hand and turned it back and forth sharply as he pointed to it, as if he was in a _Single Ladies_ music video.

Tristan shook his head and looked back down to his desk. "Simple-minded Mark," he said piteously. "Do you have to be such a stereotypical cop?"

"I haven't spent much time in a doughnut shop lately, so I'd like to say no. What are you talking about?"

"Not everything is either black or white."

"No, some things are in Technicolor."

"I mean, there's a place in between. I live in a grey area. And I don't expect you to understand," he said, looking back up.

"Grey area? What are you ta—"

"Shut up," Tristan interrupted. His eyes were on something behind his partner.

Mark looked over his shoulder and saw what Tristan was looking at. Rory was walking over to them with a determined look on her face. She had Kyle in tow. She pulled him by his shirt sleeve until they were next to Tristan's desk.

"What's happening?" he asked, taking his glasses back off and laying them on his desk. He looked at Rory with an interested—and concerned—expression.

"_He_ is going to apologize," she answered, nodding at Kyle. She crossed her arms and glared at him expectantly.

Kyle looked from Tristan to Rory, not sure who he was more frightened of at the moment.

Tristan stood up and pulled Rory's arm and tilted his head for Kyle to follow. "Let's go someplace more private," he said. "Most of the people here aren't feeling any instincts to protect and serve you two today." He led them into one of the interrogation rooms. "Have a seat."

"Are you going to interrogate me?" Kyle asked in a terrified voice as he sat down.

"No," Tristan answered. He sat on the opposite side of the table and looked up at Rory. She declined the offer to sit, and instead opted to stand as she stared down at Kyle. "_I'm_ not going to, anyway," Tristan added.

"Tell him you're sorry for what you wrote in our article," Rory said. "The unconfirmed part about Courtney Rivers."

"But someone said that's who the body was," Kyle protested. "And it was the police—so it _was_ confirmed."

"Didn't you find it at all strange that a cop was calling you, and not the other way around?" she asked.

"Doesn't _he_ call _you_?" he asked her, indicating Tristan as he said it.

"That's different," she said.

"Sure, because you—"

"Because I what?" she interrupted quickly.

"Yeah, Kyle, what does she do?" Tristan asked calmly, crossing his arms.

Kyle glanced nervously at Tristan's gun—which he happened to be wearing on a shoulder holster over his navy shirt—and swallowed. Kyle shook his head down at the table. "Nothing."

"That's what I thought," Tristan said.

Kyle looked back up at Rory when a thought occurred to him. "What about Deep Throat?"

"What about him?" Rory asked.

"Deep Throat called the guys at the _Washington Post_."

"You think we have Watergate on our hands?" Tristan asked, slightly amused. He paused a moment in consideration before continuing. "Don't worry about it, Kyle."

"What?" Rory and Kyle both asked.

Tristan nodded. "It was an honest mistake. Someone claimed to be the police, why question it?"

"Right," Kyle said, starting to look relieved. "Thanks."

"But keep one thing in mind the next time a 'source' calls you with a juicy scoop," Tristan said, lacing his fingers and putting his hands down on the table. He paused and leaned toward Kyle. "I got into some hot water this morning over your report. Now, I'm willing to take the fall for one reporter. But you aren't it. I might not be so forgiving next time."

Kyle didn't respond, he just stared at Tristan with wide eyes.

"You should probably get out of here," he suggested, glancing at the door.

The young reporter didn't need to be told twice as he bolted from the room.

"Unbelievable," Rory said as she sat down next to Tristan and sighed.

"What?"

"Now he probably fears _and_ loves you. You are the epitome of _The Prince_."

"Machiavelli knew what he was talking about."

"Congratulations, you're on your way to ruling a country—as a ruthless dictator."

"You didn't have to drag him all the way down here, you know."

"It's _his_ fault you got yelled at."

"I'm a big boy. I can take it."

"I'm actually a little disappointed in you."

"Why?"

"I thought you'd be threatening enough to get him to name his source. You know, be the bad cop."

"I think _you_ had the bad cop covered, actually."

"Really?"

"Definitely. He was scared of you. And you don't even have a weapon," Tristan said.

"I still can't believe you cut him loose so easy."

"Cut him loose?" he asked with a laugh. "He wasn't exactly in custody. And he probably wouldn't have told me his source, anyway."

"Why not?"

"Would you?"

She shrugged. "I'm not intimidated by you."

"Mm-hmm."

"And even if I don't give up a source, I'd at least tell you what they said before I printed it," she said pointedly.

Tristan guiltily averted his gaze. "Yeah," he said in a tone that Rory interpreted as apologetic.

He looked back at her. "Either way, it's not me that Kyle should be worried about. If he has information that will affect an investigation and won't give it up to _us_, a judge could find him in contempt of court. He could be thrown in jail—if he gets overzealous about protecting a source's identity," Tristan explained as he put his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. "You'd do well to keep that in mind, yourself."

Rory sat up straight. "I'm not afraid of prison. I've already been there and survived."

"You were in a Connecticut jail cell for a few hours."

"So?"

"So if you go to jail in New York, it'll be different. You'll probably have the opportunity to make some new friends. Like transvestites who were hauled in for turning tricks out on the street."

"They sound nice," Rory commented with a small smile. "And it's not exactly Sing-Sing."

Tristan exhaled heavily and looked up to the ceiling. "I can't believe I have to say this." He looked back at her. "But if someone brings you in, don't say anything until I get there."

"Does this mean that you'll represent me?" she asked eagerly, with a bigger smile.

"Don't get too excited, I didn't say I'd do it pro bono. And I'm not cheap."

"But you're easy."

"I guess you have that going for you."

Rory looked around the small room they were in. "So this is where you bring people to talk, huh?"

"Yup. This is where the magic happens."

"How would an interrogation go down?"

"You'd sit across the table. I'd ask you questions, keep things light at first. Try to lure you into a false sense of security. After a while, I'd move to your side of the table—"

"Like we are now," she cut in.

"Mm-hmm. And I'd move in a little, to try to make you nervous," he said, leaning towards her. "Is it working?"

She shook her head vigorously. "No. In fact, it's a little romantic that you want to sit so close," she said with a smile as she took his hands in hers.

He grinned. "Oh yeah, especially with people watching and listening on the other side of the glass," he said, nodding at the mirror as he said it.

Rory pulled her hands away quickly and she blushed. "Is someone watching now?"

"Yes," a voice said from the intercom. Mark walked in then. "And by the way, if you get sent to Leavenworth, I'll come visit you—during the holidays."

"Was there anyone else out there watching?" she asked.

"Meyer was. He was hoping the kid would spill the beans. He didn't catch you flirting at the end though," he told Rory with a grin. "He's even more interested in Kyle's source now." Mark put a picture down on the table in front of Tristan and Rory. "This just in."

"Who is that?" she asked as she looked down at a photo of a very pretty brunette with large brown eyes.

"Courtney Rivers," Mark answered. "She was reported missing about an hour ago."

"Kyle got it _right_?" she said in wonder. "His source is reliable?"

"Possibly. We still need a DNA sample to know if it's really her," Stevenson said.

"But who told Kyle?" Tristan mused. "We're the only ones privy to the investigation—other than the sex crimes detectives. But there's no way they would have told a reporter anything. We didn't even _have_ this information before now. So it can't be a leak." He shook his head as he said it.

"And if it is, _why_ would they want to talk to Kyle and not me?" Rory asked, concentrating hard on her own question.

Tristan stared at her. "I'm so glad you recognize what's important here," he said ironically.

She looked at him. "Sorry. But come on. Wouldn't _you_ rather talk to me?"

"I might be a little biased," he said. "But yes. I would rather talk to you."

"Thank you."

"If someone knows something, they could have just tipped us off," Tristan said. "Why go through a newspaper instead?"

"To get attention," Mark answered.

"Who would want attention?" Rory asked. "A murderer?"

"Perhaps," Tristan said. He gave her a steady look. "Be careful. At work."

She nodded. "But why would someone claim to be the police?"

Tristan shrugged. "Maybe they wanted to make sure it was in the paper. If someone says they're the police, a reporter might not find it necessary to look into it further."

"Especially if it's a young, inexperienced reporter," Rory muttered.

"The police are supposed to be trustable," he went on. "Like I told Kyle, why question it?"

"I guess," she grudgingly agreed.

Mark looked at his partner. "So, it _has_ to be someone outside the department. Someone who knows something but isn't coming to us—for whatever reason."

The three of them sat and pondered all this for a moment.

Tristan sighed. "Well, we should ask Erika Hart if she knows Courtney Rivers."

"Yeah. We should ask her brother too," Mark added.

All three stood up and headed out of the interrogation room.

"I'm surprised you aren't persona non grata around here," Tristan commented to Rory as they went back to his desk. She sat in the chair next to him.

"That's just how bad we want to know who Kyle's source is," Mark replied. He looked at Rory then, "Plus, you kind of handled him."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah, we were all terrified of you," Tristan said.

Mark picked up his phone to make a call, but addressed Rory again before he did so, "Hey, I need Tristan to be a groomsman. But he's being difficult."  
>"He does that a lot," she commented with a nod. "I think it's fun for him."<p>

"Could you maybe work your wiles on him—get him to agree to it?"

"What makes you think I don't have my own things that I'm saving my wiles for?" she asked Mark as he dialed his phone. Still, she turned to the blonde. "What's the problem? Just do it. The guys have it easy, plan a bachelor party and rent a tux. Then you're done. He probably won't even make you sign your life over."

Tristan shook his head. "No."

"Is it the tux?" she asked.

"Sure," he said with a shrug. "Let's say it's the tux."

"Everyone looks good in a tux."

"That's a lie. I mean, _I_ would obviously make it look good. But other than that, no one looks good in a tux. I think it's the shirt. And the cumber bun. Sometimes there's a bow tie. And why is there that stripe down the side of the pants?" he asked with genuine interest.

"Are you about to have a cotillion flashback or something?" Rory asked.

"What's a cotillion?" Mark asked, having just finished his phone call.

"Eighteenth century social dance," she answered.

"Mating ritual," Tristan amended. "And no, I didn't go to many—one of the benefits of being spirited off in the middle of my high school career. I'm surprised _you_ know about them though. I didn't think you had to mess with all that nonsense," he said to Rory.

"Oh, I never went to one. I came out though."

"Out of what?" Mark asked.

"The closet," Tristan answered with a grin.

"To society," Rory corrected. "I'm ripe for the picking."

Tristan looked across the desks to Stevenson and shook his head. "White people."

"I should get back to work. This trip was fruitless," she said as she stood up.

Tristan stood up as well and walked her out to the hallway.

"So will you do it?" Rory asked him as they waited on an elevator.

"Do what?"

"Be a groomsman for your partner." She gave him her best pleading voice. Her eyes were wide and her lips were very nearly in a pout.

He looked at her disbelievingly. "I'll _think_ about it." He pointed a finger at her. "This does not count as your wiles," he said quietly.

He pulled on her shirt collar so she'd step forward for him to kiss her. "Bye," he said as the doors opened. He turned her around and pushed her inside the lift.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Upon arriving back at the newsroom, Rory had been summoned to her boss's office. She was seated in a cushioned chair in front of his desk, waiting for him to finish typing an e-mail. She took the time to study the photographs of James's family that lined his bookshelves. She was studying a picture of his three kids when he looked up and addressed her.

"What's this I hear about you dragging Kyle down to the police station?"

Rory shrugged nonchalantly. "I just wanted to scare him a little. I thought he could be coaxed by the police to name his source."

James sighed. "You're going to have to deal with the fact that he has a good source."

"I have a good source too," Rory muttered to the floor.

"What's that? I can't hear you when you mumble."

"Nothing," she stated more clearly.

"And you're going to have to get used to the fact that he's on this story with you."

"I agree," she said complacently.

"What?" he asked, caught off guard.

She nodded. "I said I agree. It turns out, he was right—maybe. That girl was reported missing this afternoon."

"See, he has potential to be just as good as you."

"Sure."

She thought about the precinct full of law enforcement officials who had been waiting to be briefed this morning but had to wait for Tristan to get yelled at. It made for one long list of people who wouldn't be eager to talk to her and Kyle.

"I know you're happy with our report in today's paper, but not everyone is. It made some waves. And there might be consequences to making an entire precinct upset."

James lifted a brow unconcernedly at her. "I'm not too worried about that," he said pointedly.

Rory unhappily pursed her lips and looked away.

"Well, that's all I wanted to talk to you about. We're done here."

"Fantastic," she said flatly as she stood and walked back out to the newsroom. She sat down in her swivel chair and looked at the desk next to hers. "All right, Kyle."

He looked over at her, somewhat timidly.

"I apologize for dragging you down to the police station earlier. I didn't mean to scare you," she said, fibbing a little—or a lot.

"Oh, uh, that's okay."

"Not it isn't. But it won't happen again," she said matter-of-factly. "Now, if we're going to be working on this homicide together, I think we need to collaborate better. So before either of us sends a completed article off for publishing, we should check with the other person. This way, no one will end up surprised the next day."

"Okay," he agreed.

"Fantastic," she said again as she turned to her computer screen.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

An hour later, Tristan was speaking with Erika Hart in one of the interrogation rooms. He watched her look down at the pretty brunette in the picture that was sitting on the table in front of her. He watched her face carefully when she looked up at him.

"No. I don't know who she is," Erika said. She shook her head as she said it.

"You don't know anyone named Courtney Rivers?"

She blinked rapidly as she answered, "Nope. I've never heard of her," she insisted.

"Do you know how she could have gotten into your apartment?"

"I have no idea."

"What about that missing key? Do you think she might have used it to get in?" Tristan asked.

Erika shrugged and started twirling her hair around her finger. "I don't know, since I have no idea who she is."

"All right. You're free to go," Tristan said. "You can have a seat if you want to wait for your brother."

He ushered the blonde woman out of the small room and saw that she found a place to sit before he went over to a second interrogation room window. He pressed the button so he could hear his partner questioning Paul Hart.

The man was looking down at the same picture Tristan had just shown Erika.

When Paul looked up, his face was a bit pale, in Tristan's opinion. But the young man shook his head. "I don't know who she is. She's the one who was in the fire at my sister's?"

"We aren't quite sure yet. But she might have been."

"Oh. Well, sorry I can't help you," Paul said.

"No problem," Mark said as the two men stood and headed out of the room.

Tristan and Mark watched as Paul went over to his sister. She said something to her brother in a hushed tone and he shook his head and shrugged in answer as he eyed the police personnel nervously. After they'd left the squad floor, Tristan looked at Mark.

"They're lying."

Mark nodded in agreement. "I think they know who Courtney Rivers is."

"Yeah. We need to find out if it was really her body. Perhaps she's the girlfriend Paul claims not to have."

"Let's see if we can figure out where she lives," Mark said as the two men went to their desks.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory was on her way out of the newsroom later that afternoon. She stepped out of the elevator at the ground floor and walked through the lobby. A wave of late summer heat hit her as she walked out of the air conditioned building. She was surprised to find Tristan standing outside his car again, similar to how he'd been the week before.

When she reached him, he handed her another iced coffee. Today it was a larger size.

"What did you do this time?" she asked.

"I was mad at you this morning for something you didn't have anything to do with. I accused you of something you've never done before. . . I was a big jerk."

Rory looked up to the left, searching her memory.

"Don't you remember?" he asked. "It was a pretty big violation of trust."

"I do, now that you mention it. You did suck this morning."

He nodded in agreement. "You should really be mad about it still."

She shrugged. "It's been a long day. And to be honest, I just redirected my anger to Kyle. It was his fault."

"Good call. I'll do the same next time," he said before adding slowly, "Sorry for being so quick to blame you."

She considered him for a moment. "Sorry for not looking over Kyle's shoulder more."

He shrugged slightly. "That's not your job."

She moved to stand next to him, with their backs to his car. She stood so she was right beside him and rested her head against him. He put his arm around her while she drank her coffee.

"I'm not a fan of today," she said.

"Me neither. It was basically the anti-car-chase-day," he said. "Although, you yelling at Kyle on my behalf was a high point. So, thanks for that."

"Any time." Rory looked up at the building in front of her and sighed heavily. "I'm ready to go home. Let's get out of here."


	3. She Mine

**Title**: Ain't Life Grand

**Chapter 3**: She Mine

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. I need to add that I don't own the Emerson analogy, and its interpretation was not modified by me, but by Meg Cabot in her _Queen of Babble _series.

**A/N**: Thank you to Anybody Anywhere for input, reassurance, and the perspective of someone who isn't inside my head. Once again, thank you for the reviews. There will be more authors' notes (LJ).

_No matter how brilliantly an idea is stated, we will not really be moved unless we have already half-thought of it ourselves. –Mignon McLaughlin [__The Neurotic's Notebook]_

**She Mine**

On Tuesday morning, Rory walk through the newsroom with a cup of coffee in each hand. When she reached her desk, she handed one cup over to Kyle. Call it her peace offering of choice.

"Thanks," he said as he took a sip.

"No problem," Rory said as she sat down. "All right. What can you tell me about Courtney Rivers?"

"She died in a fire last Thursday."

"That's potentially right. She was actually reported missing yesterday. What else do you know?"

"Well, uh, the building was on Sixth Avenue."

"Okay," Rory said slowly. "Anything else?"

"Not really," Kyle said, somewhat guiltily.

Rory gave him a deadpanned look. She gave her head a mental shake. "That's all right," she said patiently. "We can look in public records. You can find all kinds of stuff there. You wouldn't believe what people could find out about you without knowing you."

"Really?" he asked, brightening.

"Really," she said nicely. "So grab your notebook, we're getting out of here." She took her own advice by putting her phone into her messenger bag and putting the strap over her shoulder. She picked up her coffee and they headed out of the newsroom.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A couple hours later, Tristan was driving north on Twelfth Avenue, he could see the Hudson River to his left. After he continued onto Riverside Drive, his cell phone rang. From the passenger seat, Mark turned the radio down.

"DuGrey," Tristan answered.

"Hey," Rory said, "do you guys have a positive ID for the body yet?"

"No. We're still waiting on the lab results."

"Okay. Hopefully it's Courtney Rivers. If not, we're going to have to recall yesterday's article."

"We won't look very good either."

"Are we terrible people for hoping someone is dead—just so we won't look bad?"

"Yes."

"Being self-aware doesn't make me feel any better, either," Rory added. "Anyway, we found in public records that Courtney has a daughter."

"We? Who is this 'we' you speak of?" Tristan asked

"Kyle and I," Rory answered. "Kyle and I are doing research at court."

"Ah, you've embraced your partner-in-crime-reporting, then?"

"For the time being."

"I see. Anyway, yes, Courtney Rivers has a daughter. The kid's father is actually the one who reported her missing yesterday."

"Have you talked to him yet?"

"We're on our way to do so now."

"Court records say they're in the middle of a custody battle."

"Court records don't lie."

"That's a motive," Rory commented. "Eliminating the competition is easier than fighting the good fight."

"Thanks Doll Face, I'll add that theory to my notes," Tristan said dryly. "What would I do without you?"

"Probably be completely lost."

"Probably," he agreed with a half-smile. He turned into a lot that was half full. He said good bye and ended the call as he parked.

The detectives go out and walked through a grassy park. They made their way over to a playground, where parents were watching their children. Tristan and Mark approached a man sitting on a bench. He was of medium build and had dirty blonde hair. He was watching a little girl with dark brown hair as she spun around on the merry-go-round. He looked up at the two men when they showed him their badges.

"Greg Parks?" Mark asked.

The man nodded. "Yeah, that's me. Are you guys investigating Courtney's disappearance?"

"Yes," Tristan answered. "What can you tell us about the last time you saw her?"

"It was over a week ago. She gets Janie on the weekends," he explained, nodding to the little girl. "I got a call from her school Friday afternoon. Courtney was supposed to pick Janie up, but she hadn't shown. So I went and got her. I stopped by her place and I tried to call her, but she never picked up. So I called the police yesterday."

"What were you doing Thursday, around noon?" Tristan asked.

"I was at work, why?"

"Have you read the _Daily News_ lately?"

Greg shook his head. "No."

Tristan produced a picture of their burn victim. "There was a fire in Midtown last Thursday. Does this look like Courtney?"

The man took a minute to look at the burned woman. He nodded slowly. "I think that's her. I recognize that necklace she has on. Courtney has one just like that."

"We'll still need you to stop by the morgue to take a look in person," Mark told him. "The two of you used to be in a relationship at some point?"

"Yes, it was six years ago. We were never married though. We stayed together for a few months after Janie was born, but we broke up."

"Why?"

"I don't think Courtney was ready to be a mom. She was still pretty young. I think she tried, but she wasn't quite responsible enough. And I wouldn't call her reliable."

"We understand you're trying to get full custody of your daughter," Mark commented.

"Yeah. I thought a kid should have both parents in her life, so we always split the time with her. But lately, I think Courtney's been a bad influence."

"What do you mean by that?" Tristan asked.

"Have you been to her work yet?" Greg asked as his answer.

The detectives shook their heads in the negative.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Around eleven o'clock, Rory was back at her desk in the newsroom. She was reading through the information she and Kyle had acquired that morning when she had been interrupted by her cell phone. Currently, she was wrapping up the conversation.

"All right Grandpa, let me call and ask him. I'll see you in about an hour," she said, ending the call. She then dialed Tristan.

"You're awfully needy today," he said as his greeting.

"That's only partly true. Earlier I was calling for business, this time it's personal."

"Oh, okay. I like that better anyway."

"I just got off the phone with Grandpa," Rory explained. "He's in town on business and wants to have lunch with me. I told him that you get top billing on Tuesdays, and he told me not to change my plans, that you should come too."

"Oh," Tristan said, not very enthusiastically. "That was nice of him."

"Yeah, so is it all right if he comes along?"

"Sure. But do _I_ have to come along then?"

"Uh, I guess not. He said he'd love to see both of us though. You don't want to have lunch with Grandpa?"

"That's not it. It's just that I'm probably one Friday night dinner and two golf games away from offering to be his personal attorney—at no charge. And I'm just not ready to make that kind of commitment to him yet."

Rory laughed a little. "Oh, okay. I can tell him you have to work. He'll find your dedication admirable."

"Good. Do that. And tell him I said hi."

"Will do," she said. She could hear background noise on Tristan's end. "Where are you?"

"Work."

"I know, but where has work taken you today?"

"Uh . . . I'd rather not say."

She listened closely and could make out the thumping of a beat. "Are you at a strip club or something?"

Tristan did not respond immediately.

"Oh my God. You're at a _strip club_?"

"It's a gentleman's club," he corrected.

"Uh yeah. If I hear hoof beats, I don't call it a zebra," she said. "I thought you didn't want to be a groomsman. It sounds like you're taking the bachelor party seriously all of a sudden."

"Hey, I'm here for work, I swear," Tristan insisted.

"Why?"

"Courtney Rivers works here. Or _worked_ here."

"She was a stripper?"

"I think they prefer the term exotic dancer."

"I'll refer you to my previous statement about zebras," she said with a smile.

"Come one, do you really think I want to be at a strip club in the middle of a Tuesday?" he asked. "It's not like I'm enjoying myself here."

"Well I'm sure that can change. Pull up a seat and have a drink. I'm sure that'll make it more pleasurable," she said with a giggle. "Oh boy, do you have it made with your job or what?"

"Laugh it up," he said. "Hey, do you think you could leave this part out when you're at lunch?"

"Why? I'm sure Grandpa will understand that going to a gentleman's club in the middle of the day is just a part of being devoted to your job."

"I'm not sure he'll see it that way."

"Okay, I'll make a deal. As long as Grandpa doesn't ask me directly if you're at a strip club, I won't tell him."

"That sounds fair."

"But he if asks, 'is Tristan at a strip club—'"

"Then you'll have no choice but to say yes."

"Correct. Because I can't lie."

Tristan sighed heavily. "I need to go."

"Right, you have to get back to work," she said with a grin.

"You better not be using air quotes as you say that."

"I would never," Rory said. "Oh hey, do you need some singles? I could borrow you some, if you're out."

The line went dead. Rory looked down at her phone and laughed some more.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan cringed as he hung up on Rory and pocketed his cell phone. "It's like she knew I was here," he told Mark.

They were standing in the back of a dimly lit lounge area. They walked toward the front of the club and took a seat close to the stage. It was unoccupied at the moment, though there _were_ two poles that went from the floor to the ceiling. The detectives were surprised to see that the club wasn't empty, even though it was the middle of the week—and a work day, no less. Maybe the club had a good lunch menu, Tristan reasoned.

When a tall, scantily clad woman approached them to take their drink orders, they pulled out their badges for her to see.

"We're not doing anything illegal here," the woman said defensively.

"That isn't why we're here," Mark said reassuringly. "Do you know Courtney Rivers?"

"Sure. She works here. She's one of the dancers," the woman answered, nodding at the stage. Then she remembered she was talking with cops. "Is she in trouble or something?"

Tristan nodded. "She was reported missing yesterday morning. When was the last time you saw her?"

"Thursday morning. She left for lunch and she never came back. No one's been able to get a hold of her since."

"Did she tell anyone where she was going?"

The woman shrugged. "Just lunch, I think."

"Did anyone have a problem with her?" Tristan asked.

"Not that I know of. She gets along fine with everyone here."

"Do you know anything about her relationship with Greg Parks?"

"They have a kid together. I think they've been okay, considering they're fighting over custody. She hasn't mentioned them arguing or anything."

"Has she been seeing anyone?" Mark asked.

"Not lately. But she used to date some guy. They split about a month ago."

"Do you know his name?"

"Paul something or other," the waitress answered.

"Did she know an Erika Hart?" Tristan asked.

"I have no idea. But now that you mention it, Hart sounds familiar. That might have been Paul's last name."

"Do you know why they broke up?"

"No, she didn't tell me. Sorry."

"That's okay. Could we speak with your manager?" Stevenson asked.

"Sure, I'll go get him. Are you sure you don't want something to drink?"

"No thanks," Tristan said.

The detectives spent two hours at the club, speaking with the manager and the other girls who worked there. Most confirmed the waitress's story and didn't know where Courtney had slipped off to the previous Thursday.

When they left, Tristan addressed his partner, "Let's go get Paul Hart and see if he changes his tune."

Mark checked his watch. "Right now?" he asked as they walked in the direction of Tristan's car.

Tristan shrugged as he unlocked the doors. "Sure, why not? I'm not in a hurry to go anywhere. Rory's having lunch with her grandfather today."

"Just because _your_ lunch plans fell through doesn't mean mine did too," Mark reminded him.

Tristan started the car and put his seat belt on. "Oh, what are your big plans?"

"I didn't say they were big."

"Walking the dog then?"

"If you must know, yes."

"Fine. We'll pick this up after lunch."

"Would you like to come along? I wouldn't want you to get lonely, sitting by yourself for a whole hour."

"All right, if you insist," Tristan answered as he started driving back in the direction of the Upper West Side.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A short while later, Tristan and Mark were walking with a golden retriever through a heavily populated—highly popular—Manhattan park. As they walked from a shaded area to one in the sunlight, Tristan put his sunglasses on.

"I can't believe you come to Central Park," he commented as he rolled up his sleeves in an attempt to cool off.

"Why?"

"Because it's like work. If I want to work during lunch, I just skip the break."

"It's not always bad," Mark said. "It's better in the morning, before all the people get here. Plus, there _are_ Park Police."

"Sure. But are they around when you need them?"

"They can be," Mark answered. "But just to be safe, I put them on speed dial."

"I see. Oh look," Tristan said pleasantly, nodding over to some benches under the shade of a few trees. "What do you suppose those guys are smoking?"

Mark looked over. "I'm not sure. But they're definitely as high as kites."

Tristan nodded. "Ah, Central Park," he said in sarcastic admiration.

"It's like a slice of New York City, right here in one spot," Mark reasoned.

"I guess. So tell me, Charlie Brown," Tristan started, "how does Snoopy here feel about the little red headed girl coming to live with you guys?" he asked, nodding down at the dog, who stopped to sniff at some bushes at the border of the sidewalk.

"He'll be fine," Mark answered. "I have a better question. What's the deal with Rory's grandfather? You don't like him?"

"I like him just fine," Tristan replied with a shrug as they resumed their walk.

"So he's the one who doesn't like _you_?"

"Oh no. He likes me. My last name is DuGrey and I went to Yale. He really doesn't have a choice but to like me."

"That's how it works, huh?"

Tristan nodded. "Pretty much."

"Why didn't you want to go to lunch then?"

"Because every time I'm around him, I start to suck up. I can't control myself."

"Why suck up if he already likes you?"

Tristan shook his head and shrugged. "I wish I knew."

"I knew why I was sucking up to Hannah's dad."

"Why?"

Mark looked at his partner in disbelief. "Because I was going to take his little girl away from him and wanted him to be okay with it."

"Oh," Tristan said with a frown. "That isn't what I'm doing."

"It isn't?"

"No."

Mark paused before asking, "Why not?"

"Because I'm not going to take Rory away from anyone," Tristan said as they ducked under a low hanging branch.

"Why not?"

"Why do you keep asking that?"

"Because I can't figure you out."

"Good. Maybe that's a sign that you should stop trying."

"Do you think you can do better or something?" Mark asked. He yanked on the leash to prevent the dog from chasing after a squirrel.

Tristan scowled at him. "I don't think that. I could do a lot worse. In fact, I _have_ done a lot worse."

"Of course you can do worse," Mark reprimanded. "We're men. We do worse ninety-nine percent of the time. Finding that one percent worth keeping is like finding a needle in a hay stack. If you manage to find it, you have to play your cards right if you want to hold onto it."

"I'm not as stupid as you think I am," Tristan said impatiently. "I know how to play my cards."

"You do?" Mark asked doubtfully.

"Yes. Has it ever occurred to you that my cards are different from yours?"

"No."

"Well they are."

Mark considered his partner for a moment. "I feel obligated to tell you that you're wrong."

"I am not wrong. Not all women want a sparkly ring," Tristan explained with a tone of authority on the subject.

"What do they want? I'm dying to know."

"A career. Some have high professional goals."

"Sure. But even those women want to get married sooner or later."

"Yeah, later."

"I take it these women include Rory?"

"Yes."

"She told you this?"

"No."

"So you read minds?"

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

"I know because her college boyfriend proposed to her when she graduated from Yale. You want to take a guess at how that worked out for him?"

"Well she's with you. So I guess she either said no, or she has questionable morals."

"She told him no. And _they_ are no longer together. Although, she didn't want to break up," Tristan explained.

Mark nodded. "Asking in the first place is daunting. A guy would have to swallow his pride to stay with a girl after that kind of rejection."

"I guess," Tristan agreed as they walked passed Delacorte Theater, which advertised Shakespeare in the Park. He wondered what play was currently on the schedule. Maybe Rory would want to go over the weekend. He continued, "The guy is a newspaper mogul, too. His family owns a bunch of papers all over."

"Ah, a newspaper man with a newspaper woman. The perfect couple," Mark said, in a lightly insidious tone.

Tristan clenched his jaw for a moment before responding. "Sure. Perfect," he said flatly. "So, see? I'm right and you're wrong. Rory doesn't want to get married. Not even when it's perfect."

"No," Mark argued as they stopped to pause in the shade. "_Ten _years ago she didn't marry some _other _guy."

"So?"

"So it isn't the same. She thinks about getting married. And buckle up my friend, because—for some reason—she thinks about marrying _you_."

"Maybe hypothetically," Tristan objected. They continued walking. "But that isn't real. It's hypothetical. And hypothetical is just hypothetical."

"Say hypothetical one more time," Mark requested.

Tristan shook his head. "It doesn't matter. She imagined marrying the newspaper guy. But she still told him no when he asked."

"Because she wanted to work," Mark stated, to clarify.

"Mm-hmm. He wanted to get married and go live in California. He planned out their future and apparently wasn't patient enough to wait for her to establish her career first," Tristan reasoned. "He was an idiot for pressing her to choose. But it worked in my favor, so I can't get too upset over it."

Mark took a moment to process. "Ah."

"What 'ah'? That was a loaded 'ah'."

"She wants to work and you aren't going to tie her down," he said slowly.

"Right."

"Or ask her to do anything at the cost of her career. Like picking black over white," he finished contemplatively as he remembered what Tristan had said the day before. "Is this the grey area you live in?"

Tristan nodded.

"You're an idiot."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are, if you're trying to right that guy's wrong."

"What?"

"If you want to learn from someone else's mistake, that's fine. But you're still an idiot."

"I am not," Tristan insisted. He continued, with conviction, "Rory wants to be a foreign correspondent. It's her life goal and she hasn't achieved it yet."

"So, what," Mark said, "the _Daily News_ is okay for now, but she's just waiting for something better to come along?"

Tristan shrugged. "Yeah. Something like that."

"Heck, maybe she'll even move on to some_one_ better, too. You're just the guy who keeps her company for now, but someone else will do the job for the long haul. That's big of you, to accept it and be at peace."

"I didn't say that," Tristan muttered, glaring down at the concrete sidewalk.

"So when she gets the big correspondence job, that's it? You're dumping her?" Mark asked, bluntly getting down to business.

"No," Tristan answered. "I'll probably get her a Kevlar vest though."

"They make those for the press," Mark commented. "So you're planning on _her_ dumping _you_ then?"

"No," Tristan said slowly. "But I don't think I'd get a say in that scenario."

"Fair enough. Would you make her stay here?"

"Obviously not," he scoffed. "Haven't you been listening?"

"Then when is the 'perfect' time to seal the deal?" Mark pressed on. "When she's retired? If you didn't already know, women and men are different. There are specific things women can't do when they're older."

Tristan pondered this and didn't say anything.

Mark went on, "You've over thought the situation."

"That's not true. I've given it just the right amount of thought."

Mark shook his head. "Not about the right thing. You only took away half of the lesson—and the wrong half."

"What's the right half then?"

"Maybe it's not just a timing issue."

"Then what is it?"

"Tell me, do you think you're the wagon or the star?" Mark inquired. "Your answer makes a big difference."

Tristan—confused—replied, "I'm a person."

"Have you ever heard about hitching your wagon to a star?"

He shrugged. "Set high goals for yourself?"

"Yeah, that's what Emerson was talking about. But I'm applying it to you differently, so stay with me here. The star obviously gets the glory, but the wagon shouldn't care if the star is worth it. So figure out who the star is."

Tristan frowned in thought. "Are you being allegorical? I can't understand you when you talk in riddles."

"Surely your big Harvard brain can handle it."

"Can't you just tell me the answer?" Tristan asked, somewhat distracted at this point. His eyes scanned the park and he suspiciously watched a guy up ahead on the sidewalk. He was wearing a grey hoodie. Tristan thought it was too damned hot for that kind of attire.

"No," Mark replied. "Only you can answer. Plus, you'll feel better if you work it out for yourself."

"But what if I choose wrong?" Tristan watched the man in the hoodie quickly walk beside a woman with a purse hanging from her shoulder.

"Then you fix it. It's called compromise. Adults do it every day."

They had stopped again, this time so the dog could do his business. The woman up ahead was yelling and looking around for help, as the man in the hoodie had just grabbed her purse.

Tristan looked around. "Where are those Park Police you mentioned?"

Mark looked over his shoulder. "They should be here somewhere."

"Maybe you should give them a call," Tristan said before he sprinted off toward the bag-snatcher.

He raced past the woman and sped up as he got closer to the mugger. When he caught up with the guy, Tristan grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. They collided and tumbled over into the grass. The guy struggled under Tristan.

"Stop. Police," he said, right as the mugger thrust his fist at his nose.

"You just hit the wrong guy," he said.

He quickly grabbed a pair of handcuffs from his belt and put one of the bracelets on the man's wrist. He got up and dragged the culprit with him. He walked to a tree and tossed the empty cuff over a high branch. Then, Tristan fitted the other bracelet onto the man's other wrist. The high branch forced him to stand on his toes.

"Couldn't you use a lower branch?" he complained to the detective.

"I don't see any lower ones," Tristan answered absentmindedly, ignoring the many lower branches as he wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve.

He quickly patted the guy down and didn't find any weapons. He did, however, take the man's wallet from his back pocket to check his ID. "Reuben Jones, you are under arrest for assaulting a police officer. And for theft," Tristan said before continuing to read the suspect his Miranda rights.

"Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?" he asked in an almost bored sounding voice.

"Yes," the criminal answered sourly.

"Fantastic." He examined the bridge of his sunglasses, to see if they were damaged when he got hit. Seeing that they were fine, he put them back on.

The victim caught up to them then and Tristan handed over her purse. "Here you go, ma'am."

"Thank you so much. Are you the police?"

"Yup. You can press charges if you want," he told the woman before looking at Reuben. "I'm thinking about doing so."

Mark and his golden retriever made their way over them. He was accompanied by two uniformed Park Police officers. They looked from the apprehended man to Tristan.

"Did you arrest him?" one of the uniforms asked.

Tristan nodded. "Yeah. I'd have waited for you to do it, but he took a swing at me."

The officer nodded curtly. "I see. We'll take it from here. I'll forward the paperwork on to you, Detective."

Tristan grimaced and mentally kicked himself. "Damn it."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that afternoon, Rory was at her desk again. She had just gotten off the phone with the medical examiner. Courtney Rivers was confirmed as the dead body from the fire. Before Rory could transition to another task, her phone rang.

"Newsroom," she answered.

There was a second of silence before the caller spoke. "Yes, this is Officer Jack Young. I have an update about the Rivers homicide. Is this the woman reporting the story?"

Rory's heart sped up—this was the possible leak, and he wanted to talk to her. She tried to play it cool. "Yes. I think you spoke with my colleague over the weekend," she said as she quickly jotted down the man's name.

"Yes, the kid."

"Would you rather talk to him instead?"

"Actually, no. I'd rather talk to you."

Rory thought the 'officer' sounded oddly familiar. Maybe he was a real cop after all. She'd talked to several over the years. "Have we met before?"

"No, I don't think so," he answered.

"Oh, my mistake. So, what can you tell me about the murder?"

"We are looking into Paul Hart."

"Erika's brother?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Is he a suspect?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me why you're looking into him? I didn't think he knew Courtney."

"He wasn't being truthful."

"Oh, I see," she said. "Since I haven't met you in person, do you think you could give me your badge number? I like to make sure my sources are reliable."

"I would love to give you that information," Young said smoothly.

Rory wrote down the number carefully. She was a bit disappointed that the man agreed to it so quickly. If he wasn't who he said he was, he might have been more hesitant.

"Your colleague wasn't as interested in checking me out," Young commented.

"Oh?" Rory asked. "He said you gave him your name."

"I did. He didn't ask for a badge number. But I don't think he'd have done anything with it anyway," Young said suggestively.

Rory wondered what was going on. It seemed fishy. "Well, I'll be sure to look into it," she said reassuringly. "Before I let you go, can you tell me your role in the investigation?"

He did hesitate this time, but only a second. "I'm under the detectives in charge. I'm helping them."

Rory was pretty sure she found his handicap. However, she didn't let on. "That makes sense. Thanks for the update," she said as they both hung up.

She pressed the receiver on her phone and called a non-emergency phone number.

"New York Police Department, how can I help you?" the dispatcher answered.

"Hi, I want the name of an officer, I have his badge number," Rory explained before she read off the number she had written down. She waited patiently while the dispatcher ran the number.

"That badge number is no longer in use," the woman answered.

Rory felt a wave of triumph. "Can you tell me who it used to belong to?"

"An Officer Young," the woman said.

The wave felt a little less triumphant, and a little more confused. "Thank you," Rory said before hanging up.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

It was nearly the end of the day when Tristan and Mark returned to the twenty-first precinct. They didn't get to talk to Paul Hart again. After the body was positively IDed as Courtney Rivers, they had gone to search her apartment.

Tristan was frowning down at a form on his desk. Those Park Police sure didn't waste any time in passing on the paperwork. He was about to pick up a pen to get started, but something better caught his attention.

Rory walked into the room and approached him. She had a coffee drink in one hand, and it didn't look like she'd had any of it. When she was close enough, he could that see she looked a bit timid. However, when she noticed his face, her expression changed to concern. She wore knit brows when she sat down next to his desk.

Before she could comment though, he addressed her, "Mary, Mary quite contrary. How does your garden grow?"

"I've never had much of a green thumb," she answered.

"That isn't how you're supposed to respond."

"What, you don't have to do mine, but I have to do yours?"

He grinned and nodded. "Yes."

Rory shook her head. "What happened to your eye?" She tried to reach toward it as she asked, but he flinched and jerked his head away.

"I went to Central Park with Stevenson for his dog walk," Tristan answered. He'd checked himself out in the rearview mirror before coming up to the third floor of the precinct. His eye was now a shade of purple.

"You knew you'd just end up working," she reminded him.

"I know," he said. "I had to chase down a mugger."

"You _had_ to?"

"No one else was. So yes."

"Do you ever think before you chase after people?"

"Sure," Mark answered for his partner. "Sometimes he even thinks too much," he added evocatively.

Tristan knew he wasn't referring to criminals. He narrowed his eyes and felt the urge to flip Mark the bird. But Rory was there, so he settled with scratching his nose with his middle finger.

Rory gave him a thoughtful look before twisting around in Mark's direction. "Do you ever get tired of him hogging the spotlight?"

"What?" Tristan asked. "I don't do that."

Rory turned back to him. "Really?" she asked in disbelief. "I know there can only be one alpha male, but you've been taking it really seriously lately."

"Yeah," Mark said. "He likes to be the center of attention. You should have seen that mugger today. DuGrey had him hanging from a tree in the middle of the park."

Tristan looked across the desks to his partner with furrowed brows. That phrase 'center of attention' concerned him. Was he getting the answer to the question posed to him earlier that day? That didn't seem likely. He was supposed to figure it out himself. But if it _was_ the answer, was it right or wrong? He was supposed to fix it, if it was wrong.

Mark saw the wheels turning in Tristan's head, so he tried to help him out. "Don't worry. You're a good partner, so I reckon you're worth the trouble."

"He didn't make you shoot at anything this time, did he?" Rory asked.

Mark grinned and shook his head in answer.

She looked back at Tristan again. "You're lucky to have such a modest partner."

"Oh. Yeah," he said, still unsure of himself. He nodded at the iced coffee she'd brought and changed the subject. "What do you have there?"

She put the cup on his desk and pushed it over to him. "I have to tell you something. It might make you mad, so I brought it for you."

"Why?" he asked, frowning down at the coffee.

"Isn't that what we're doing? You make me mad and then bring me coffee to smooth things over," she reasoned. "So I brought _you_ coffee this time, since I might make you mad in a minute here."

"I brought you coffee because it's your favorite thing."

"Oh. That's what you were doing?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And it isn't everyone's favorite thing?"

He shook his head. "No. You brought _your_ favorite thing to placate me."

"Well what's your favorite thing then?" she asked, confused that coffee wasn't the answer.

He gave her a blank stare.

"Oh. Right. I know what your favorite thing is. We can do that later."

"I'll hold you to that," Tristan said. "So what's going to make me mad?"

"Well, today someone called me with an update on your case."

"Someone?"

She nodded. "Yes. Someone who isn't you—Kyle's source. But I'm not going to write what he said," she added quickly.

"And what _did_ he say this time?"

"That the police are looking into Paul Hart. But that's wrong, isn't it? You already talked to him last week. Didn't you?"

"We did," Tristan said slowly. "But we're going to talk with him again first thing tomorrow."

"You are? Why?" Rory asked in disbelief.

"Courtney Rivers had a boyfriend a month ago. According to her, um, _colleagues_, it was Hart."

"Oh," Rory said. She sat in thought for a minute. Then she asked, "Aren't you going to ask for a name?"

"Whose name?"

"The mysterious source. I have a name. Although I don't think he is who he says he is."

Tristan shook his head. "You won't say, no matter how nicely I ask."

"But doesn't that make you mad?"

He shook his head again. "I'm not mad." He uncapped a pen and started filling out the form.

"You're sure?"

"Yup," he answered shortly. "But if it makes you feel better, I didn't say I was happy about it."

"Okay."

He slid the coffee back over to her. "You can have it."

"Oh. Thanks," she said before taking a sip.

"I suppose congratulations are in order," he said. "It looks like the source wanted to talk to you after all."

"Yeah, I guess so," Rory agreed. "I'm glad you aren't mad, because I think I'm going to keep talking to him."

Tristan put his pen down and looked back at her. Apparently they weren't finished with the conversation. "What?"

"He said he's a cop—and even had a badge. I'm pretty sure he's lying, but he seems to know inside information. Maybe he knows something that will help your investigation."

"So let me get this straight. You're turning the source into an informant?"

"Sort of. I just want to help you. If someone knows something that you don't, you can look into it."

Tristan sighed and put his hand to the bridge of his nose. He forgot about his black eye and winced in pain. He put his hand back down. "Remember yesterday? I told you to be careful. You don't know who this guy is or why he knows stuff."

"I know. And I will," Rory said.

He picked his pen back up and looked down.

"That's it?" she asked. "That argument worked? I didn't think I would successfully lawyer you with that defense."

"Oh you didn't. I just have a feeling you're going to do whatever you want, regardless," he said, glancing back at her.

"Probably. I have a hard head."

"Mm-hmm."

She stood up. "Well, I'm finished for the day. How about you?"

He tapped the document his desk with his pen. "I will be after I fill this out."

"All right. I'll see you in a little while then. I'm going to go buy a bag of frozen peas."

"Can we have something else? I don't feel like peas tonight."

Mark shook his head. "They're for your eye, genius."

"Oh. Right. I knew that." Tristan looked back up at Rory. "I won't be long."

She nodded and walked out of the precinct.

Mark sighed tiredly and stood. "I'm going to head out too." However, he didn't turn to go. "Hey, don't do anything stupid."

"Why would I do something stupid?" Tristan asked without looking up. He put his reading glasses on to help his tired eyes see better.

"Because of the stuff we talked about earlier—in the park. I didn't mean to psych you out or anything. Don't do anything you aren't ready for."

"I'm not psyched out," Tristan said. "You haven't peer pressured me into getting married."

"Good. And hey, marriage isn't for everyone. Maybe it isn't for you," Mark said. "But you should find out if all the assumptions you've been holding onto are really true."

"Mm-hmm," Tristan muttered.

This response didn't make Mark feel better, but he turned to go anyway.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The next day, Rory walked out of the conference room with the rest of her colleagues. They were just released from the weekly staff meeting. Itching to find out who the mysterious source was, Rory skipped her morning coffee and went straight to her desk.

She thought about how unused badges were sometimes collected and traded. So her first priority was to find out if it involved a paper trail. She worked diligently through the rest of the morning, but it garnered few results. Around noon, she sat back and sighed in frustration. There was no way she was going to find out who got their hands on an old badge.

She moved the mouse around on her computer screen. Then a much more obvious idea came to her. "Duh," she said, kicking herself. She was spending so much time trying to figure out who had the badge _now_, she'd ignored doing research on who Jack Young was.

She went to Google and typed the officer's name into the search engine. Several newspaper articles popped up from six years earlier. She found a piece written by a _Daily News_ crime reporter—someone who no longer worked there, just her luck.

The article included a picture of Jack Young. There was also a story about how he'd been killed in the line of duty. It appeared that they were dealing with a ghost.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, at the precinct, Tristan and Mark were questioning Paul Hart again. They were in one of the interrogation rooms, sitting at the table. Mark set the picture of Courtney Rivers in front of him for a second time.

"We're going to need the truth this time," he said. "Who is this?"

Paul looked down tepidly. "I already said, I don't know who that is."

Tristan slapped his hand down on the table impatiently, which made Paul jump. "Stop lying. We know you had a girlfriend a month ago. And we know you used to go to your sister's with a girl."

"Is this the girl?" Mark asked.

Paul averted his gaze guiltily. "Yeah. I used to date Courtney."

"Why did you keep telling us otherwise, then?" Tristan asked.

The man looked at them, wearing a frightened expression. "Because then you would think that I killed her. And I didn't!"

Tristan leaned in a little and waved his hand toward himself for Paul to come closer—not that he did. "You want to know a secret? Lying to the police doesn't make you look innocent."

"Quite the opposite," Mark agreed. "In fact, it ruins your credibility with us."

Tristan leaned back in his chair then and crossed his arms. "You're lucky we're such nice guys. We're going to give you the opportunity to tell the truth. So start talking."

"All right," Paul said, staring down at the table. "I used to date Courtney."

"How long did you date?" Mark asked.

"A few months. But she has a daughter and I'm not ready for all that. I'm still young, a kid is too heavy for me. So we broke up a month ago."

"You broke up with her?" Tristan asked.

"Yeah."

"Why was she in your sister's apartment last week?"

Paul shrugged. "I'm not sure. She wasn't there with _me_. I was at work."

"Did she have the extra key that you said you lost?" Stevenson asked.

The man shrugged again. "I don't know. Maybe," he said before hesitating a moment. "I did used to take her there sometimes—when my sister was out. You were right," he said, looking at Mark. "It can get crowded with two roommates. I just went there for some privacy."

"Are you sure you didn't break up with her over her job?" Tristan asked. "That kind of occupation could make a guy jealous."

Paul looked at the detective with a confused expression. "Waitressing?"

Tristan gave the man a piteous look. "She told you she was a waitress?"

Paul nodded.

"She lied to you, man."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that afternoon, Rory was still at her desk, learning all she could from newspaper articles about Jack Young and how he'd died. She hadn't even stopped to eat lunch, she was so engrossed in her task. When she heard her cell phone ring, she absentmindedly picked it up to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is Officer Young again."

Rory didn't say anything. Her heart sped up considerably. But not from any kind of excitement. She suddenly didn't care about any information this 'cop' had. He'd just called her cell phone. It was a private—unlisted—number. One that she didn't give out to everybody and anybody.

She took a deep breath and tried to be nonchalant. "Oh. Hi, Officer." It was all she could get out in her terrified state. She concentrated on getting her pulse to slow down. She remembered the slip up the 'officer' had made the day before and decided to press the issue. "Can you tell me more specifically what your role is in the homicide case?"

"Like I said, I'm helping the detectives."

"Helping?"

"Yeah, providing support."

"That must be a drag, getting bossed around by a couple detectives," she said. "Especially since some act like they're really hot stuff."

"Yeah, that's true enough," Young agreed.

Rory had him where she wanted, so she pounced. "Did you know that detectives can't actually tell anyone what to do?"

"What?" Young asked. "Yes they can."

Rory shook her head adamantly, though no one could see. "No, they can't. They get paid as well as some supervisors, but no one is under them. They're only responsible for themselves."

"Oh—well," Young stuttered.

"Would you like to try again?" she asked forcefully, gaining confidence. She even forgot to be scared about someone calling her personal phone. "Who are you really?"

"I told you. Officer—"

Rory shook her head again. "No you're not. Officer Jack Young died six years ago in the line of duty."

For some reason, this information didn't deter the caller. To Rory's surprise, it had the opposite effect. "Tell me more about that," he requested.

"What?"

"How did I die?"

"Okay, first off, you aren't a ghost. Second, the _real_ Officer Young was killed when he responded to a robbery at a jewelry store."

"By whom?"

"One of the buglers—Jeff Levin—shot you. I mean, he shot Officer Young."

"But did he?" the caller asked.

"Well yeah." Now Rory didn't know what to think. "That's who the jury convicted."

"Maybe they got it wrong," he said. "It's been known to happen."

Rory was about to question this, but the line went dead. She looked down at her cell phone and clicked around to go to her list of received calls. Unfortunately, the man had blocked his number. She tapped her foot impatiently, not sure what to do. She probably needed to report the incident to someone. And 'someone' was not going to be happy.

First things first though, she thought, as she looked over at her co-worker. "Kyle, don't talk to Jack Young anymore." She started to get up.

"Why not?" Kyle asked. "Hey, how do you know his name?"

"Because he called and told me. Take a look," she said, nodding at her computer screen. She grabbed a printout and got up. She determinedly went to her editor's office and tapped on the door.

"What do you need?" James asked as she took a seat across from him.

"I want off the case," she told him.

"What?"

She nodded. "I want off the Rivers homicide case."

He frowned at her in confusion. "Why?"

"Because of this," she said, slapping the article with the picture of the fallen officer.

"Who's that?" James asked, glancing down.

"_That_ is Kyle's source. It's someone claiming to be that guy. He called me. I don't want to have my name associated with a story that's going to have recalls because we believe anyone who says he's a cop."

"But I want both of you on the story," James protested. He looked worried, as Rory sounded very serious.

She shook her head. "Kyle will do fine. You said yourself that he has promise."

"What about what you said yesterday, about him making waves at the precinct? He'll need someone to update him."

"You said you weren't worried about Kyle's waves, remember?"

James hesitated.

"Was there a specific reason you weren't worried?" she inquired with interest. When she didn't receive a response, she nodded. "You're realizing how bad it will sound if you said it out loud? That's what I thought." She started to get up.

"How is Kyle going to do the story without you if no one will talk to him?"

Rory turned back. "My advice? He can call One Police Plaza and talk to a spokesperson."

"But—"

"I'm going to go see if Life and Style needs me to write something for them," she said as she walked out the door.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Not long after she'd left her editor's office, Rory walked into the twenty-first precinct. She went to the third floor and made a bee line for the captain's office.

"Hey Mary," Tristan said, grabbing her wrist as she walked by—she hadn't slowed down. "Where are you heading in such a hurry?"

She nodded at the open door of the office. "To talk to your boss."

"Why?" he asked with furrowed brows.

"Look up Jack Young," she instructed him, tilting her head in the direction of the computer on his desk.

He used one hand to type in the name and they both waited a moment. His search results were more direct than hers had been. He clicked a couple times and found the information she'd read earlier that morning. "Who is he?"

"Kyle's police source."

Tristan looked at her with an inquisitive expression.

She nodded. "That's right," she said in a mockingly cheerful voice. "The _Daily News_ is now printing anything anyone says—including ghosts."

"So what did you come down here for?"

"To tell Meyer that something is up." She tugged on her wrist, which Tristan still had a grip on. "Let me go."

He did as asked, but stood up to follow. Rory tapped on the door and went in when the captain acknowledged her. She took a seat in front of the large mahogany desk. Tristan stayed at the door, leaning a shoulder up against the frame. When his boss raised a brow at him in question, Tristan just shrugged.

"Good afternoon, Captain," Rory started politely and all business-like. "I wanted to let you know that there's someone calling the paper, and they're impersonating a police officer. He claims to be working on the Rivers homicide case with Detectives DuGrey and Stevenson. I just want to reassure you that the _Daily News_ will _not_ be printing anything this person says."

"All right," the balding middle-aged captain said.

"I will field any future calls made by this person and make sure you guys know what he said."

"I appreciate it," Meyer said.

"Now, I would like to research a case from six years ago. The source claimed to be an officer—a Jack Young—who was killed in the line of duty. Could I look through the police reports and witness statements from that case?"

"Sure," the captain said. "If you can get someone to find the stuff in archives and make copies."

"Thank you," Rory said as she stood up. She elbowed her way past Tristan and went back out to the bull pen floor. She started looking around at the detectives.

"What are you looking for?" Tristan asked at her side.

"Some nice looking person who'll get what I want from archives."

"Ah."

She looked up at him. "Unless _you_ would be willing to get it for me."

"I suppose I could," he answered. "I'll get it later and bring it tonight."

"Thanks."

Mark walked over to them then. "Are you ready to go?" he asked Tristan.

"Yup."

"Where are we going?" Rory asked as she followed Tristan out to the hallway.

"_We_ are going to search Courtney River's apartment again," he answered as they took the stairs.

"Oh," she said. "Uh, I have to tell you something." She stopped him on the landing between floors.

"What?"

"You're going to be mad."

"You didn't bring coffee for yourself this time," he observed.

She shook her head. "No. Okay, so, the source who says he's a cop? He called again today."

"And? What does he know today?"

"I don't know. But he does know my cell phone number."

Tristan looked at her sharply. "What?"

She nodded. "He called me on my cell phone today."

"How would someone know that number? You don't use it for work at all, do you?"

"No, not when talking with sources. Present company excluded, of course."

"You should get a different phone."

She hesitated and bit her lip.

Tristan sighed in frustration. "You don't want a different phone though. You want to keep talking to your new informant," he said knowingly as they continued down the stairs.

"Well, now I want to know what happened with that other case. I have the time."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm off the Rivers story. I told Jimmy that I don't want my name on recanted articles," Rory explained. She continued, "I promise to be careful."

Tristan sighed heavily again and shook his head. "It has to be someone who knows you."

"Yeah, but who?"

Neither of them had the answer. When they were at the second floor, Tristan went over to a vending machine. He looked through the glass at the options inside. He pulled a couple quarters out of his pocket and slipped them through the slot.

"What do I want?" he asked.

Rory viewed the choices and pressed a number and a letter. A Cracker Jacks box fell to the bottom and she reached down to retrieve it. She opened it and helped herself to some popcorn as they continued down the stairs. They walked out of the stairwell when they reached the ground level.

Mark walked out of the elevator and joined them as they went out the front doors. They stepped outside and squinted in the bright sunlight. Tristan stopped at the top of the steps and Rory held the box out to him.

"Did you want some?"

"Yes. Thank you," he said as he took the box. After pouring some of the candied popcorn into his hand, he scanned the street and asked, "So, who has your cell phone number—that you know of?"

"Just family and friends."

"What about people at the _Daily News_?"

"It's on file with Human Resources, and Jimmy has it. But other than that . . ." She thought a moment. "Marie. But she wouldn't give it out. Plus she's out of town."

"I have it," Mark said.

Rory looked at him, perplexed. "I don't mean this offensively or anything," she told him before turning back to Tristan, "but why does he have my number?"

"Because I gave it to him."

"Why?"

"Because we can pretend like your mandate about me not being allowed to get hurt will magically do the trick. _Or_ I can just make sure you find out quickly if something does happen."

Rory pondered this for a minute. "Well . . . there's a phone call I can look forward to for the rest of my life," she muttered ruefully.

Tristan had been pouring popcorn into his hand, but he stopped and looked at Rory after her statement. "What?"

She looked at him. "I said, _there's_ a phone call I can look forward to for the rest of my life," she said, more clearly this time. "Or I guess the rest of _your_ life. Since you seem hell bent on being the first to go—if your recent antics are any indication."

Tristan stared at her for a few seconds.

"What?" she asked. "Oh. Yes, I finally said it, I want you around. Happy?" She glanced down at his hand and laughed a little. "There's your prize. It'll match your eyes."

He looked down. There was a blue plastic ring sitting on top of the popcorn.

Rory watched him pick up the ring and toss the popcorn on the ground. He grabbed her left hand and she took a step forward, startled by his abrupt move. He slipped the ring on her third finger.

"There you go," he said simply.

"What's this?" she asked with a small smile as she looked down at her hand.

"If you're going to spend all that time worrying about me, you should at least get my pension."

"What?" she asked with furrowed brows.

Mark, who saw what Tristan did and heard what he said, turned away and wished he wasn't there to be a witness.

Tristan nodded at Rory. "Yeah, you know. If something happens to me. You'll get my benefits," he explained assertively.

"But wouldn't we have to be ma—." She stopped mid word. The half-smile she'd been wearing dropped from her face and her heart sped up a little. "What are you doing?"

He shrugged. "Putting a ring on it. That's what you're supposed to do when you like it, right?"

"What are you saying?" Rory asked, her eyebrows were growing closer together.

"That I like it . . . it—being you."

"Are you seriously quoting Beyoncé?"

"A little."

"This is plastic," she protested, gesturing at the blue ring.

"Sure, but you're weird enough to think something like that would be cute."

"I'm weird?"

"Yeah, remember? It's good though—I like weird. I mean, I like that you're weird."

"We're standing in front of the precinct," she said incredulously, glancing at the building behind them.

"Mark asked in the middle of the sidewalk," Tristan said, pointing to his partner. "Remember? We were there."

Mark shook his head in dismay and muttered, "Please don't bring me into this."

"_Mark_ had an actual ring and obviously thought about it for more than two seconds," Rory said indignantly. "And _you_ haven't asked anything. I don't know _what_ you're doing. But this isn't how you're supposed to do it."

Rory yanked the ring off her finger and grabbed Tristan's hand. She slapped the ring onto his palm and closed his fingers over it. She roughly thrust his fist into his chest and turned on her heel. She left him watching her leave as she headed for the subway terminal.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Have I told you that you're an idiot lately?" Mark asked as he and Tristan watched Rory walk away.

"It's been a little over twenty-four hours."

"You still are." Mark turned to his partner and shook his head in wonder. "Outstanding."

"What just happened?" Tristan asked in a daze.

"You proposed," Mark said as he started down the stairs.

"No I didn't," Tristan said. He pocketed the blue ring as he followed.

"Yes you did. But in your defense, it was so bad that you probably couldn't tell what you were doing. _She_ couldn't tell—which is why she wanted clarification."

Tristan took a moment to think it all over. The phrase 'rest of our lives' and the image of him shoving a plastic ring on Rory's finger crossed his mind. It did seem to indicate a certain something. "Oh my God. Did I just propose?"

Mark nodded. "In a roundabout way. I'm starting to wonder, do you listen when you talk, or is it just white noise?" he asked, somewhat rhetorically. "I told you not to do anything stupid."

"You should have been more specific!"

"I thought I was pretty clear," Mark said as they approached the black Camaro.

"Here," Tristan said, handing over his keys. "You better drive. I don't think I can right now."

Mark nodded in agreement and went to the driver's side. He unlocked the doors and they both got in.

"You said I was overthinking the situation," Tristan continued. "So I stopped thinking."

"_This_ is what happens when your subconscious takes over?" Mark asked incredulously. "Apparently you've only been repressing yourself."

"Why didn't you stop me?"

"It was like a train wreck. You're powerless to stop it, but you can't look away—even though you really, _really_ want to."

Tristan let his head fall back onto the headrest. "Good thing I didn't ask for real. She'd have said no. I told you she doesn't want to get married."

Mark had been adjusting the seat, but stopped dead. "_That's_ what you gathered from what just happened?"

Tristan looked over at him. "What else was I supposed to take from it?"

"Geez, you're a bigger idiot than I thought. She seemed to be upset by the _way_ you asked."

"But I didn't ask."

"She seemed kind of mad about that too."

"Oh man," Tristan said dismally. He rubbed his face in his hands. "I don't know how I'm supposed to make up for this one. I'm going to have to buy a whole coffee chain. And I'll need my trust fund to do that. I'll have to turn in my badge and go practice law. That's it then, my dad wins. I thought there was a chance that it might happen one day, but I was _not_ expecting this to be the reason," he rambled.

"Hey, how much are you worth anyway?"

"What?"

"How much is your net worth? I know you aren't in line to run an empire or anything, but you're worth something, aren't you?"

Tristan looked at his partner like he had three heads.

"Sorry, off topic," Mark said, shaking his head as he pulled out of the parking lot. "So. Was calling her weird completely necessary?"

"I meant it as a compliment," Tristan said miserably as he let his head fall back again. He turned so he could stare out the passenger side window.

"Nice touch."

"Thank you."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A few hours later, the detectives were back at the precinct. It was the end of the day, and Mark once again stood to go home before his partner. And he—once again—paused before leaving.

"So what are you going to do?" he asked Tristan.

The blonde was sitting with his cheek resting on his fist and was staring at nothing in particular. He shrugged before responding. "Probably go down to the gym for a while. Then go home and get in the shower, where I can crawl into the fetal position," Tristan answered tonelessly. He looked up then. "Good thing I have a safety net to go to. Maybe I'm just the kind of guy who needs a backup place. For when I screw up."

"I don't think she's mad for the reason you think."

But Tristan shook his head, not convinced.

"Just go talk to her," Mark suggested.

Tristan shook his head again. "Not tonight. I wouldn't know what to say."


	4. Back to the Moment

**Title**: Ain't Life Grand

**Chapter 4**: Back to the Moment

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. I need to add that I don't own the Emerson analogy, and its interpretation was not modified by me, but by Meg Cabot in her _Queen of Babble _series.

**A/N**: Thank you again for the reviews! I know what you're thinking: it's about time. You're right. Oh, and if you can't find my LJ, go to my profile and click on Homepage (top left).

_We should all be concerned about the future because we will have to spend the rest of our lives there. –Charles F. Kettering_

**Back to the Moment**

Early Thursday morning, Tristan and his partner were in his car, he had just parked on the street in front of the _Daily News_. He reached to his backseat and grabbed a thick file folder and a couple VHS tapes. It was all held together with a large rubber band. He handed the bundle to Mark.

"Here, take that to the second floor and leave it with the receptionist."

Mark frowned down at the stack. "What is it?"

"Some old case Rory wants to look into."

Mark tried to hand it back to Tristan. "You take it in."

Tristan shook his head and shoved the folder back into Mark's lap. "I can't. You do it."

"Why can't you do it? She's _your_ girlfriend."

"And _this_ is where she works," Tristan answered, pointing to the building. "She might be in there."

"So you're avoiding her?" Stevenson asked. "That's really mature of you."

"I'm not avoiding her _per se_. I just haven't figured out what to do about the situation yet."

"It wasn't _that_ bad."

"Yes it was. You told me so."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, it really was. Sometimes I wish I wasn't a spectator to so much of your personal life. Remember when you pretended like she wasn't your girlfriend? I think I liked it better that way."

"You're probably in luck. She may not want to _be_ my girlfriend anymore," Tristan said. "As you've pointed out, I'm kind of an idiot. She can clearly do better."

"Are you going to be this dramatic all day? Or are you getting it out of your system now?"

"Will you please just take that up to the newsroom?"

Mark sighed and shook his head. He took the folder and tapes before opening his door. "Fine. I'll take it in. But only because you look like hell—you'd scare someone," he said as he got out.

Tristan didn't bother to get offended. He also didn't bother to look in the mirror. He knew it was true. He was unshaven and his eyes had dark circles around them. It didn't help that one was still purplish. He'd stayed at work late the night before, making copies of the case Rory wanted. Then he spent half the night tossing and turning—after he finally got to sleep. To top off his wonderful week, he overslept and got to work late that morning.

He was checking his mirrors in a paranoid way, expecting Rory to arrive at any second—and see his car—when Stevenson returned. He got back in the car and looked at Tristan expectantly, ready to go.

Tristan paused before driving away. "Was she up there?"

Mark shook his head. "Nope, not yet. The receptionist said she'd make sure Rory gets it when she comes in."

Tristan nodded. "Good," he said as he drove away.

NNNNNNNNNNNNN

Not much later, Rory walked off the elevator at the second floor and proceeded into the lobby of the _Daily News_. She smiled at the matronly woman sitting behind the receptionist's desk. Before she walked by, the woman stopped her.

"Someone just brought you something," she said, placing a file folder with two video tapes on top of her tall desk.

"Oh, thanks," Rory said, looking down at the labeled folder. She recognized the handwriting. Before she continued to the newsroom, she asked, "Uh, who brought this up?"

"A tall gentleman. Brown hair," the receptionists answered.

She nodded in appreciation. "Oh. Okay, thanks."

She walked over to her desk and took the rubber band off the package. She started paging through the police reports and witness statements. She organized it all into stacks on her desk, though it had all been pretty orderly in the folder. She made a note to find the court transcripts from the trial. She also wanted to make a visit to the jewelry store where the robbery had taken place.

Then, reluctantly, she turned her attention to the options she'd been given from the Life and Style section. She could either write about fashion or food. The answer to that was pretty easy. Good thing she didn't offer her services to Life and Style during Fashion Week, she thought.

At the desk next to her, Kyle hung up the phone and looked over. "Hey Rory."

"Hey what?" she asked, still busy with the things on her desk.

"Do you know what's going on with the Rivers' case?"

"No," she said honestly. "Sorry. What did the spokesperson say?"

Kyle sighed. "Just that the investigators are questioning people of interest."

"Then I guess that's what's going on."

Kyle hesitated before asking, "Do you think you could call your boyfriend and ask him for more details?"

Rory felt her face get warm at the request. She shook her head and averted her eyes. "No, I really can't," she answered.

"I'm sorry about what happened with that source," Kyle offered desperately.

She glanced at her co-worker briefly before responding. "I know. I just can't call today."

Kyle sat up straighter as he got an idea. "_I_ could call him, though, couldn't I? I can be connected to his extension with just his last name. Right?"

"Uh, yeah, technically," Rory answered. "But I wouldn't recommend it."

Kyle slouched back down in his chair. "Oh. Okay."

Rory almost felt bad for Kyle, but didn't get the chance to think about it too much, as her cell phone rang from her drawer. It made her heart beat faster. She was nervous to answer. But she felt relieved when she read the caller ID.

"Hello?" she answered with a smile.

"Rory?"

"Lane?"

"How are you?" she asked cheerfully.

"I'm fine," Rory answered as she gathered up all the papers on her desk. "You?"

"I'm wonderful."

"Oh, wow, you sound _extra_ good. What's up?"

"Well—is it a bad time? I know you're working."

"It's okay, I always have time for you. And I was about to head out anyway."

"All right," Lane said. "So, guess who's going on a second honeymoon."

"Harrison and Calista?" Rory answered.

"No, but I'm sure they've been working hard and deserve a break."

"How about you and Zach then?"

"Yes!" Lane said excitedly.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks. We're so excited. We _finally_ get to make up for the first one. You _do_ remember how bad the first on was, right?"

"Well I don't know firsthand, but I believed your account. So yes."

"Good. So you agree that we need to try it again?"

"Yes. Of course. Why?" Rory asked as she stuffed all of her research into her messenger bag.

"Here's the thing. Mama is going to watch the boys next week. _But_, she has a big antique convention to go to this weekend. Do you see where I'm going with this?" Lane asked hopefully.

"Yes. Steve and Kwan will be home alone for a couple days. And I wouldn't worry if I were you. I think they'll do a great job of defending the house when Joe Pesci shows up to rob you."

"That's not quite where I was going."

Rory stood up and tucked her chair under her desk. She started to head out of the newsroom as she continued, "Oh, do you need me to baby-sit over the weekend?"

"Would you?" Lane asked in a tone of giddy anticipation. "I know it's last minute."

"Well if I didn't, I'd really be skirting my responsibilities as their Lorelai Gilmore."

Lane gasped. "That's right, you would. So you _have_ to do it. I should remember that, for if I ever have to guilt you into something."

"Good idea."

"And you won't even notice them. They will be perfect angels for you."

"I have no doubt," Rory said as she pressed the button for the elevator. Then she had a thought. "Oh shoot."

"What? No 'oh shoot', you already agreed."

"I'm not sure if I'll have to come into work for a few hours Saturday."

"That's okay!" Lane said quickly. "What about Tristan? Would he be willing to stand in for you?"

"Oh, uh, I'm not—," Rory felt herself blush again at the mention of his name, and was glad when Lane interrupted.

"Or what about Lucy and Olivia? They're nice girls. I bet they'd love to hang out with a couple of nine year old boys for a little while."

"Uh, yeah, maybe," Rory said as she opened the door and walked out into the bright sunlight. "I could ask Lucy. She'll probably do it."

"Great."

"And if nothing else, I could bring them into the office, if I really need to."

"Good, so this is a plan?"

Rory nodded and hailed a cab. "It's a plan."

"Excellent. Would you be able to pick them up from the train station, say—tomorrow after work?"

"Yes I would," Rory agreed.

"Thank you so much. You're a life saver."

"That's what I'm here for," she said before they ended the call.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A couple hours later, Mark and Tristan were sitting at a table across from Erika Hart again. They put the picture of Courtney Rivers in front of her, just like they'd done with her brother.

"We'd like the truth this time," Stevenson said. "We know you were lying, just like your brother."

Erika defiantly didn't respond at first. No one said anything for a moment. But then she broke down. "Fine. She was dating my brother."

"Why did you lie?"

"Because I know my brother didn't kill her. I didn't want you thinking that he did."

"Dating her wouldn't have meant that he killed her," Tristan commented. "Buy lying hasn't helped his case."

"Fine. So they used to go out," Erika started. "I know you'd try to make a case against Paul if you knew that."

"Do you know how the American justice system works?" Tristan asked.

"Please. You're probably focusing all your attention on Paul now. And just because he used to date Courtney."

"No. It was the lying—on both of your parts—that's making us focus on him," Tristan said impatiently.

"Was there any other reason you thought we'd focus on Paul?" Mark asked.

"No," Erika answered with a shrug.

"She's been to your apartment?"

"Yeah."

"Did you know your brother took her to your place when you weren't there?" Tristan asked.

The blonde woman frowned. "No. He did that?"

He nodded. "That's what he told us."

"I didn't know that."

"Do you think he gave Courtney the key he had? Maybe he didn't really lose it," Mark suggested.

"No, I don't think so," Erika said, though she said it slowly.

"Would she have stolen it from him?" Tristan asked.

The woman shrugged. "Maybe. She seemed like she could be a little conniving. She was manipulative. She'd get my brother to go along with whatever she wanted. She was really pretty," Erika admitted. "She probably got by on her looks."

"Do you know what she did for a living?" Stevenson asked.

"Wasn't she a waitress?"

Mark shook his head. "No."

Tristan noticed the necklace Erika was wearing. A pick gemstone hanging from the silver chain caught his attention. He frowned and opened the file they had on their victim. He flipped to the picture of her after the fire. He turned the picture around so Erika could see.

"Are you wearing the same necklace as her?" he asked as he pointed to the jewelry.

Erika looked down at the picture and her hand went to her own necklace. "It looks the same." She gasped indignantly. "Is she wearing my necklace?"

Tristan looked at her like she was stupid. "This one is in evidence," he said as he pointed to the picture. "You're obviously wearing yours."

She put her hand back down. "Oh, right."

"Who gave it—," Mark started. However, Tristan kicked him under the table.

"Do you know where it came from?" he asked.

"It's from Satya Jewelry, over on Broadway."

"Great. That's all we need from you today," he said as he stood and let Erika out of the small room.

Mark looked at his partner with a frown. "Why don't you want to know who bought it?" he asked.

They both walked out of the interrogation room and went over to their desks. "I do want to know. I just want to know the truth before she lies about it. That's probably a specialty item, only made by Satya. Hopefully whoever bought those paid with a credit card."

"Good idea. I knew you were good for something," Mark said. "Let's go see what we can find."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A little while later, Tristan and Mark walked into Satya Jewelry. There was only one person working, and he was occupied with a customer.

Mark looked into a display case to view the sparkling jewelry inside. "Maybe I should get Hannah something while we're here. She's been pretty stressed out lately."

"Wedding plans eating her alive?" Tristan asked dryly.

"No. School just started."

"Oh," Tristan said before he wandered away.

As he gazed down at all the diamonds and gemstones that glittered in the special lighting, he thought about getting Rory something. He needed to do major damage control. Then he—dreadfully—considered what the damage control was for. Maybe jewelry wasn't the way to go.

He was staring down into a display case and didn't notice that the employee had approached him.

"Thinking of popping the question?" the silver haired man asked nicely.

Tristan lifted his head sharply. He felt like all the blood had drained from his face. "What?" he asked guiltily.

The man nodded down at the display case. "I could take one out for you, if you'd like a closer look."

Tristan glanced back down and noticed that he was standing in front of diamond rings. "Oh, uh, no thanks," he answered quickly as he shook his head.

Mark walked over then. He snickered before addressing the man behind the display case, "While we can reasonably assume that he'd like to take a wife, he has women figured out."

"Ah, perhaps he should write a book, for the rest of us," the jeweler suggested genially.

Mark shook his head. "You don't want what he's selling."

"Could we get back to work?" Tristan asked impatiently as he showed the man his badge.

His partner nodded. "We're investigating a homicide. The victim was wearing a necklace that we believe came from your store."

"Oh I see."

Mark showed the man the picture of Courtney Rivers so he could see the necklace in question.

"Oh my," the jeweler said when he saw the burns on the woman. He sat a pair of glasses on his nose so he could see the necklace better. He nodded. "Yes, we make that. It's our Passionate Possibilities Necklace."

"Do you think we could have receipts of everyone who's bought one in the past year?" Tristan asked.

The man nodded. "Yes of course. I could have them ready for you tomorrow, if you like."

The detectives nodded. "Thanks," Mark said.

"Can I help you gentleman with anything else today?"

"Actually, yes," Mark said. "I want to buy one of these bracelets over there," he said, jerking his head back to the display case he'd been browsing. They moved closer and the grey haired man took out the item indicated. "It'll need a few links taken out," Mark added.

"All right, I can have that ready for you tomorrow with the receipts you need," the man said. "Anything else?"

Mark looked at Tristan with a grin. "Do you need a minute?"

"Nope. Let's go," he answered firmly.

They both headed for the door. Tristan opened it at the same time someone else was walking in. Since she was looking down at her phone, they bumped into each other. Tristan grabbed her shoulders to hold her steady. He gasped in horror when Rory looked up at him. Her eyes grew wide and her cheeks turned pink. He took his hands off her shoulders quickly.

"Uh, we're here for work," he said hastily. In a panic, he looked at Mark for help.

"It's true, we are," Mark said, holding up the file folder as proof.

"Oh. Yeah. Me too," Rory said anxiously.

"Good. You got that file, then?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Sure," Tristan said with a nod. "We were leaving."

"Right," she said.

He and Rory tried to step out of each other's way, but just looked like they were dancing, as they moved left to right. Tristan grabbed her shoulders again and moved her in the opposite direction he was going so he and Mark could exit the store.

When they were safely outside, Tristan's heart was pounding uncomfortably in his chest. He closed his eyes tightly as he tried to shake the feeling of mortification. He really hadn't wanted Rory to see him today, he was a mess.

Mark looked at him. "Just think. That _could_ have been awkward." He waited a second to see if Tristan was going to recover. "Do I need to drive again?"

Tristan nodded silently and handed over his keys.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that afternoon, Rory was back at her desk in the newsroom. She was typing up a glowing review for a new restaurant she'd been to over the weekend when her desk phone rang.

"Newsroom," she answered.

"Yes, this is Officer Young," the caller said.

Rory only paused for a second before she continued typing. Her nerves were too shot from her earlier encounter to bother being scared. "Cut the crap," she said in a perfectly calm voice. "You aren't a law enforcement official of any kind."

"Maybe not," the man conceded.

"So what did you do? Go to a museum and copy down a badge number, so you could find out the name of the officer it used to belong to?"

"Not quite."

"It wasn't a bad idea." Rory continued, "It certainly made you seem credible—for about five minutes."

"I knew I wasn't going to fool you."

Rory thought for a moment and remembered Courtney Rivers' occupation. "Are you a cop like a stripper is a cop?" she asked. It started to make sense to her. "Oh my God, that's what you are. You're a Hot Cop, like from _Arrested Development_, aren't you?"

"No."

"Do you go around telling women that they have the right to remain sexy?"

"No."

But she nodded. "That's why you know about the case, you knew Courtney Rivers. You're in the same community." Rory was pretty proud of herself for figuring that out.

"I don't even know what you're talking about," the man said.

"Using a dead cop's name was a pretty good idea," Rory said again, in a complimentary tone. "So what do you know today?"

"You first," he said cryptically.

"What do you mean?" Rory asked with a frown.

"What do you know about Jack Young? I'm confident your journalistic instincts have kicked in."

He had her there. She picked up the thick file and opened it. "He left a wife."

"I don't care about that."

"Oh. Fine. He was shot, I already told you that. By Jeff Levin—when he was robbing a jewelry store on Broadway."

"That's not true. Jeff didn't have a weapon."

Rory didn't question how the caller knew that—correct—information. He'd already proven he knew inside information about the other case. Why not know about both?

"Well, there are only two witness accounts, and they match," she said.

"Who were the witnesses?"

Rory looked down at one of the documents. "Jeff Levin's partner-in-crime, a Derek Crabtree. The fact that he was robbing the place couldn't have made him reliable," she reasoned. "But Young's partner, Douglas Aldred gave a collaborating statement."

"And what _are_ those statements?"

"There was a struggle between Levin and Aldred. Levin got the officer's gun and shot Young. There were two surveillance videos," she went on. She had to admit, she was getting more interested. "I watched both. One shows Crabtree and Levin casing the place beforehand. But when they went in to rob the place, they covered up the camera, so no one saw what happened except the other officer. And his account collaborated with Crabtree's."

"Someone is lying."

"If one is, then they both are," Rory pointed out.

"Exactly. I knew you were smart."

Rory wasn't sure what she was supposed to make of that. So she changed the subject. "Your turn," she said. "Since you're obviously close to the Courtney Rivers case, for whatever reason."

"Sure. You earned it. Erika Hart's boyfriend should be a person of interest. You can even put that on the record."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't know who you are. And you're just going to make the real police look bad."

"So? Aren't you trying to sell a paper?"

Rory shook her head and avoided the question. "I'm not even writing about that case anymore." She thought for a couple seconds. "If you know who the police should be looking at, why don't you just tell them yourself?"

"I can't, my hands are tied. Plus, I just have this feeling that you'll pass the message onto the people who matter. Or at least, to one of them," he said. "I have to go. But I'll talk to you tomorrow, Rory."

The line went dead, but even if it hadn't, Rory slammed the phone down anyway. The frightened feeling she'd fended off rushed over her. Random people who called the newsroom weren't supposed to know her real name. I was several minutes before she was calm enough to continue with what she'd been doing before the interruption.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

That evening, Rory arrived home. She was trying to forget certain parts of her day as she flopped onto the couch. She sighed and closed her eyes. When she heard her cell phone buzz from the coffee table, it wasn't a welcome sound.

"Hello?" she answered reluctantly.

"I'm bored," Lorelai stated. "Entertain me. Unless you're busy entertaining someone _else_," she said suggestively.

"I'm not. Tristan isn't here—if that's who you're referring to. And if it isn't, I'm offended that you think I'm so slutty."

"Is he still at work? I guess criminals aren't concerned about nine to five schedules."

"I don't know if he's at work," Rory admitted. She turned over on the couch to lie on her back. "He wasn't here last night, either."

Lorelai gasped dramatically. "Do I sense a lover's quarrel?"

"No," Rory said shortly. "He's probably just giving me space."

"Did you ask for space?"

"No. But yesterday I walked away from him in what one might call a storm off. So it's a fair deduction that I'd want space."

"What happened? Are we mad at him?"

"We aren't mad," Rory answered. "We're moderately annoyed."

"What did he do?"

"I don't want to say."

"Why not?"

"Because. It's embarrassing."

"For him?"

"For me."

"So you're embarrassed with yourself and annoyed with Tristan."

Rory sighed and sat up. "Yes."

"I'm going to need more," Lorelai said. "I'm too intrigued for you to stop now. Calling you for entertainment was definitely the right choice."

"Fine. Yesterday, he gave me a plastic ring," Rory said as she got up and walked to her kitchen. "From a box of Cracker Jack."

"Oh my. I can see why we're annoyed."

"He put it on my left ring finger," Rory explained pointedly. She opened the refrigerator to view her dinner choices. "Do you know what it usually means when a man puts a ring on his girlfriend's left ring finger?"

"_Oh_," Lorelai said, drawing the word out. "So what did you say?"

"I asked what he was doing."

"And?"

"He was 'putting a ring on it'," she said, in exasperation as she pushed the refrigerator door shut and leaned against the counter.

"No, you already told me that part."

"I know. That's what he _said_ he was doing."

"No he didn't," Lorelai said with a laugh.

"Oh, but he did. Then he called me weird."

"So we're annoyed because he called you weird?"

"No—not that it helped. I'm annoyed because it's a serious thing he was implying, but he was so cavalier about it. Like it was no big deal to put a ring on my finger."

"But it was fake."

"I know."

Lorelai thought for a moment. "I think I need the context. Give me more details surrounding the incident. You're a journalist, use your words. Be as descriptive as I know you like to be."

"We were in front of the precinct," Rory started. "We were talking and I don't know why, but he gave me a weird look. And the next second he put that stupid plastic ring on my finger."

"Did he say anything else?"

Rory thought back. It wasn't too difficult, she'd gone over it a couple dozen times when she was trying to sleep the night before. She answered, "Something about if anything happens to him, I should get his benefits—his _death_ benefits."

"Oh. Well that's nice of him, to want you to be provided for. A little morbid, but nice."

"He picked a really weird way to get his point across. But I guess that's true."

"You'd probably have to be married though," Lorelai mused.

"_Probably_," Rory agreed. "I _think_ that's what he meant by the plastic ring."

"Okay. I'm starting to get the picture. I think. Have you been giving off a marriage vibe?"

"No," Rory answered with furrowed brows. She opened her pantry. "What's a marriage vibe?"

"Have you said anything like, 'you know, we could file a joint tax return if we were married'?"

"It isn't tax season, so no," Rory answered. "I mean, I don't think I have. I _did_ mention a new Italian restaurant this past weekend. And five minutes later, Tristan asked if I wanted to go eat there. So he _can_ take a hint. But if I ever gave off a marriage vibe, it wasn't on purpose."

She thought for a moment, but shook her head. "I honestly don't think he knew what he was doing yesterday." She didn't find anything she wanted in the pantry, so she closed the door and moved back to the refrigerator.

"Maybe it was accidently on purpose," Lorelai reasoned.

"What?"

"You know, it was on purpose, but an accident."

"It doesn't make more sense when you turn it around."

"Think about it, he wants to marry you on purpose, but accidently asked without planning it out better—or at all."

"But he didn't ask."

"Ah-_ha_!" Lorelai said triumphantly.

"What?"

"_That's_ why we're mad."

"We aren't mad, we're—"

"Annoyed. Right." Lorelai continued. She went on, matter-of-factly, "You're annoyed that he didn't ask anything."

"No. I'm annoyed because he acted like a fake ring and a rambling mess of words was supposed to mean something. I mean, what is that, a joke? Who doesn't think about that kind of thing first?" she demanded.

"Sometimes you don't have to think. Sometimes you just know, so you ask."

"Well, that isn't what happened, Tristan didn't ask anything."

"See, you keep coming back to that. Which makes it seem like you'd be less mad if he _did_ ask."

"That isn't what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I don't know!" Rory said in frustration.

"Okay, fine. What are you embarrassed about?"

"The way I acted. He didn't make a big deal out of it, but _I_ did," Rory explained. She sighed in defeat. "I probably freaked him out. He _looked_ freaked out when I ran into him today—at a jewelry store."

Lorelai chuckled a little. "It keeps getting better. Isn't that good though? Maybe he was there to get the real thing."

Rory shook her head. "He was there for work. That's why I was there too." She frowned. She hadn't realized that when she spoke with the mystery caller that afternoon. She should have brought it up.

She shook her head to return to the moment. "Besides," she continued, "that's what I'm _afraid_ of, not what I'm hoping for."

"So you're afraid that he _will_ ask?"

"I'm afraid he'll go out and do something big that he isn't ready to do—or doesn't _want_ to do—just because I got mad and maybe—inadvertently—implied that I wanted him to do something . . . something big," Rory said in a somewhat rambling manner. "I don't want him to go out and do something stupid because of how I acted."

"He can get _more_ stupid?"

"We probably shouldn't underestimate him," Rory said dryly. She opened the freezer and found some toaster pizza. She went to a cabinet and pulled down a plate. It was the last one. She wondered why she didn't she have any more clean ones.

"But maybe he _does_ want to ask you to marry him," Lorelai reasoned. "Would that make you feel better?"

"What do you mean?" Rory asked suspiciously.

"I mean, would you prefer that Tristan ask you for real?"

Rory was silent for a full minute. "Not if he doesn't _want_ to ask me," she said slowly.

"Nice way to avoid the question."

"Well, the future is sort of fuzzy, but I pictured myself getting married _eventually_."

"Sure. It's nice to have someone who will always be there, no matter what."

"That sounds nice," Rory agreed quietly.

"Mm-hmm."

"Plus, I'm at an age where I want to be in a relationship that's moving _forward_," she said, a little defensively. "And yeah, I'm completely finished with school—"

"Was it sad for you to say that out loud?"

"I died a little on the inside."

"So you _are_ kind of weird."

"As I was _saying_, I'm finished with school. So my next major life event will _probably_ be . . . marriage."

"That sounds fair."

"It does?"

"Yes," Lorelai said reassuringly. She continued cautiously, "So, to that end, do you feel as though your current relationship is moving in the direction you'd like?"

Rory didn't say anything for a minute, again. Finally, she exhaled heavily and grudgingly answered, "Yes."

"You sound really happy about it," her mother observed.

"Can't you just let me be annoyed with him for a couple days?" Rory asked impatiently as she put her plate of pizza in the microwave and slammed the door shut.

"Sure, sorry," Lorelai said. "So you're saying that the picture is a little less fuzzy these days?"

"A _little_." Rory went on slowly, "That doesn't freak you out, does it?"

"I think if I was freaked out by my thirty year old daughter wanting to get married, I should seek psychiatric help."

"I'm twenty-nine," Rory corrected—falsely.

"Oh hey, me too."

"You _still_ might need psych—"

"I'm going to stop you right there," Lorelai interrupted. "I know the end of that sentence, and I resent it."

"All right," Rory conceded as the microwave buzzed. She took her dinner out and sat it on the kitchen island. Before she started her own meal, she sprinkled some fish food in the bowl that sat at the edge of the counter.

"I _am_ a little freaked out at how much you sound like your grandmother," Lorelai commented.

"I do? How?"

"Oh, no reason."

"No, what is it? Has Grandma been talking about me?"

"Not really, it was just this one thing. At your graduation party."

"What happened?"

"It's really nothing, but I got the feeling that she _may_ have been hoping something was going to happen."

"Something like what?" Rory asked absentmindedly as she blew on the hot pizza before taking a bite.

"It was a graduation party," Lorelai said. "And we're talking about _your_ grandmother. So think about it."

Rory frowned and did try to think about it as she chewed. "I don't know, tell me."

"Come on, what do you think _Emily Gilmore_ might hope her _single_ granddaughter's boyfriend might do after she graduated?"

Rory thought some more. She put her pizza down, now worried. "Oh my God, she didn't actually think Tristan was going to—at my _graduation_ party? Why would she think that?"

"Because she's Emily Gilmore. I thought we established that. Plus, it happened before."

"That doesn't mean anything!" Rory protested. "Why did she think it would happen again?"

"I don't really have to respond to that, do I? Because we keep circling back to the same answer," Lorelai said.

"Oh my God," Rory groaned. She just remembered something. "After the party, Tristan said that Grandma kept looking at him. I told him he was just being paranoid."

"He wasn't. She had her eye on him. Her evil, evil eye."

"I can't believe she thought I would get proposed to the same way twice. Especially considering how it turned out last time. Not that the location of the proposal factored into the answer," Rory said as she shook her head, feeling more embarrassed. She picked her pizza back up to resume eating.

Lorelai went on, "Mom was obviously suffering from wishful thinking. She probably won't rest easy until you're successfully married off." She was silent for a moment, before she musingly said, "Huh. I thought she thought highly of Tristan."

Rory nodded. "She does. Probably because he's a Yale man. And she likes his grandfather."

"Sure, but she clearly underestimated his originality," Lorelai reasoned.

Rory snorted. "I think we all underestimated that one."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The next morning, Tristan was at his desk, making phone calls. At the desk across from him, Mark was doing the same. While searching Courtney Rivers' apartment, they came across a box of business cards, all belonging to men.

"That's fine, we'll see you tomorrow," Tristan said before he hung up his phone. He looked over to his partner. "Another one just lawyered up."

Mark shook his head. "There's a lot of pre-emptive action going on with these guys."

Tristan nodded in agreement. "What kind of illegal activities do you suppose they were doing with a nice looking exotic dancer?"

"She might be giving all strippers a bad name."

"Maybe she needed some extra money, since she was in the middle of that custody battle," Tristan theorized.

"Yeah, maybe. Lawyers do suck the life blood out of people."

Tristan nodded in agreement. "Do you think she was using Erika Hart's apartment as a shag palace?"

"That's a possibility."

"We should talk to the landlord again. He saw Courtney go there with Paul. Maybe he saw her there with her other gentlemen callers."

Mark nodded. "And we need to drop back by the jewelry store, too. Maybe we can cross reference one of these business card guys with a name on a receipt."

"Let's hope so," Tristan said as they both stood up.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

In the newsroom, Rory was trying to find out what she could about the jewelry heist where Jack Young was killed. She wanted to speak with his widow. She also wanted to talk to the other two people involved—the two that were living, that is. Douglas Aldred would be easy enough, he still lived in New York. However, Derek Crabtree, the partner-in-crime, moved shortly after the trial ended.

Rory had made a call to her vacationing colleague. And luckily, Marie had answered.

"So this Jeff Levin guy was accused and convicted of killing a cop?" Marie asked after Rory explained the case.

"Yes," she answered. "And I was thinking of going to prison—to get his side of the story, but get this. He escaped."

"He escaped from prison?"

"Yup."

Marie was silent for a moment. "So he's just out there somewhere, and you're bringing the old case back to life?"

"It isn't me. It's whoever's calling me."

"Maybe it's Levin himself. If he didn't do it, he probably can't go to the police to ask for their help," Marie suggested.

"Yeah, maybe. But why pick me to do the dirty work?"

"I don't have an answer for that one."

"I want to find Levin's brother. He's the only family member I can find for him. Maybe he knows more about it."

"Plus, he isn't potentially dangerous."

"Also true."

"Well, I'd love to keep talking with you during my vacation, but I'm on vacation," Marie said. "And I prefer to not think about work when I'm on _vacation_. So I'm going to have to let you go."

"Oh. Okay," Rory said as they both hung up.

She tried to continue her research, but she stopped to tap her pen on her desk anxiously. She shifted her attention somewhat, to the current murder. She wondered if Erika Hart's brother really should be a person of interest. And she also wondered if the police knew. There was one way to find out.

She glance at her phone, but didn't make a move to pick it up. Instead, she put her pen down and drummed her fingers on the desk nervously. She lifted her hand and held it over the phone. It hovered there for a few seconds before she quickly picked it up and dialed. After all, some things were more important than a stupid plastic ring.

She nervously tapped her foot as she listened to the ringing. She wasn't sure if she wanted an answer or not. When she heard Tristan's voicemail, she felt a little relieved.

"Uh, hi, it's me," she said timidly. "I was just wondering if you guys were looking into Erika Hart's boyfriend. I don't know his name, but I heard he might be a person of interest. Or should be. I don't know. I was tipped off," she rambled. She tried to wrap it up, "Anyway, uh, that's all. Um, bye," she said before she hung the phone up just as quickly as she had picked it up.

She sighed and covered her face with her hands

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Around mid-day, Tristan and Mark were walking down the hall of an elementary school. Tristan peeked into classrooms as they walked by, catching glimpses of students sitting at their desks.

"So this is public school," he commented as he eyed some student work displayed on the wall.

"Yeah," Mark said. "Is this the first time you've ever been in one?"

"Maybe," Tristan answered. "It smells funny."

"It smells like an elementary school," Mark said. He shook his head at his partner. "I suppose you and Rory will send _your_ kids to fancy private schools."

"Will you shut up?" Tristan asked harshly.

"Oh that's right, she doesn't want all that," Mark said as he stopped at a classroom.

He stood at the doorway and looked inside. His fiancé was in the middle of teaching a math lesson at the board. When she glanced over and saw the detectives watching her, she waved in surprise. Mark held up a narrow velvet box, to indicate he'd brought her a present. She looked happily interested and motioned for them to come in.

Not wanting to interrupt the lesson, the two men walked quietly through the coat hall, which led to the back of the room. There was a round table with five small chairs where they both sat down. A stack of construction paper and a basket of art supplies sat in the center of the table.

Mark grinned as he took a small pair of scissors to cut a narrow strip of cream colored construction paper. "Maybe this can be a learning experience for you," he quietly told Tristan.

"I don't want to brag or anything, but I already know my times tables," Tristan replied dryly as he watched Hannah work through a multiplication problem on the board.

Mark just shook his head as he picked a crayon out of the basket.

Tristan wrested his cheek on his fist as his eyes roamed around the classroom. The walls were decorated with various posters. Some offered motivational phrases, others were instructional. He read one and got a reminder about parts of speech. Hannah had expectations and consequences posted in large print at the front of the room, next to the dry erase board. He noticed that there were smaller versions of the rules posted on the other three walls. It made him wonder if third graders were really forgetful enough to need so many reminders.

Tristan turned his attention to the students, who were sitting in their tiny desks. A few of the boys curiously glanced back at the detectives. But when Tristan made eye contact, they quickly turned back to their teacher. He wondered if he was ever that small. He was fairly certain he was always this height. He thought back to elementary school. Things were much simpler back then. The hardest thing he had to decide was whether or not to kiss Paris after being dared to do so. Yeah, like he would have tried to get out of a dare.

All of the boys and girls gave their teacher their full attention as she wrote down the page number of the assignment on the board. He noted that—during the whole lesson—none of the boys had to be reprimanded for staring at a girl. He sighed and tiredly rubbed his face in his hands. At least he was coming up with fresh and new ways to embarrass himself in front of the girl he liked.

As the students took out their textbooks, Hannah moved around, checking to make sure they understood as they started the assignment. Tristan turned back to the table. He frowned at the paper Mark had in front of him. 'The DuGrey's' was written at the top of the paper.

"What are you doing?" Tristan asked.

"Drawing you a picture."

"Of what?"

"Your future."

"What? Why?" Tristan asked with furrowed brows.

"Because Hannah says everyone learns differently. And the verbal thing isn't working with you lately. So I'm trying visual today—it's differentiated instruction. Frankly, I think you ought to understand either way. But here," Mark said, sliding over a drawing of four stick figures. "That's you and Rory. And those are the kids she would like to have. With you. You can name them Hypothetical and Imaginary, if you like."

Tristan stared down at the slip of paper. He pointed to the second stick figure child. "You should make that one a girl."

"What?" Mark asked, a bit disbelieving.

"One should be a girl. She'd—probably want to pass her name on," Tristan said hastily.

Mark stared at Tristan for a full five seconds before he took the paper back and drew a triangle for a skirt and long brown hair on the stick figure indicated.

"Okay, Hypothetical and Lorelai," Mark muttered under his breath, shaking his head a little. He turned the paper back around. "There. Better?"

Tristan glanced down and then quickly away. "Yeah."

When Hannah approached them a couple minutes later, Mark stood to talk to her. Tristan snatched the paper and folded it a few times—it didn't need to be sitting around for anyone to find.

"Hey, what are you guys doing here?" she asked, glancing at Tristan and back to Mark.

"I got you something," Mark answered, handing over the velvet box.

She opened it and smiled down at the sparling bracelet. "Ooh, it's really pretty," she said as she took it out of the box. Mark helped her put it on, closing the clasp. "Thank you."

She turned her attention to Tristan. "You know, I talked with my friend, and you don't have to be a groomsman if you don't want to be," she explained sympathetically. Too sympathetically.

Tristan looked at Mark sharply. "Did you _tell_ her?"

Mark shrugged and nodded. "She asked how my day was."

"And you couldn't have left that part out?"

Hannah shook her head. "Oh no. He could not have."

Tristan looked away sourly.

"It'll be okay," she said encouragingly. "Do you guys have to get back to work? Or do you have time to impress a room full of eight and nine-year-olds?"

"Sorry, but we do have to get back," Mark answered.

He and Tristan followed Hannah to the front of the room. As they walked beside a row of students, she called on a boy who had his hand raised.

"Are those guys the police?" he asked, glancing at their guns with wide eyes.

"Yes. They have to get back to work to catch the bad guys," she answered. Some of the boys looked at each other with excited expressions.

Before the three adults got to the door, Hannah paused and turned back to her students. "And if anyone doesn't follow the rules, they might have to come back to talk to you," she added sternly.

When she looked back at the detectives, they had their eyebrows raised.

She shrugged. "What? It's the second week of school. I have to show them who's boss."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

That afternoon, Rory was sitting in the newsroom, where reporters were busy finishing up their articles for the next day's paper. She was jerked out of her research cocoon when her desk phone rang.

"Newsroom," she answered.

"I'd tell you who it is, but you won't believe me," the man on the other end said.

Rory wasn't going to let this guy scare her. She had a plan today. She might not have perfected her poker face, but she could at least sound confident over the phone. "So it's the Hot Cop again."

"Not really, but that's kind of flattering, in a way."

"Are you Jeff Levin?"

"No."

"I guess you know he escaped from prison six months ago, don't you?"

There was a pause. "I may have heard something about that."

"So, where is he?"

"Why? Do you want to turn him in?"

"Actually, I want to interview him. Get his side of the story," Rory said.

"Aren't you afraid to talk to a cop killer?"

"You're making it sound like he might not be guilty."

"So I've brought you around to my way of thinking."

"You know, since I don't know where Jeff Levin is, I might talk to his brother. He has one. And I've found him," Rory said, bluffing.

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"That's your prerogative," Rory said coolly. "I want to know more about the Courtney Rivers case," she said, intending to get the upper hand in the conversation. "Do you know anything?"

"Oh, I know the most important thing."

"What's that's supposed to mean?"

"What do you think?"

Rory did think. The most important thing in murder case was to find the murderer. "Do you know who killed her?" she asked in a hushed tone. She looked around the newsroom to make sure no one was listening.

"I do."

"Who?" she asked. "Wait, I don't want to know. Go tell the police."

"I already told you, I can't. My hands are tied."

"What does that even mean?" She gasped. "Did you do it?"

There was a long pause. "Yes. It was me. I killed her," the man said matter-of-factly. "And if you go running to that detective, he'll be next."

Rory's heart sped up. "_What_? I don't know who you're talking about," she said in an unconvincing voice.

"Yes you do. Your boyfriend. The blonde one."

The blood drained from her face. "What do you think you're going to do?" she asked incredulously. Then she answered her own question. "You aren't going to do anything to him."

"You're the one in control of that now, aren't you, Rory?"

The line went dead and Rory's mind was racing. She hung up the phone with a shaking hand. She didn't know what to do. Her first instinct was to call Tristan, but that seemed like it was the worst thing to do. She wondered if anyone would _actually_ know if she told him about this, but didn't want to risk it, if they did know. After all, someone knew her real name. And her cell phone number. And about Tristan. What else could they find out? She wasn't sure, but she didn't want to find out the hard way.

He'd probably stay at his apartment again, she reasoned. Good, that was probably safer. Although, he didn't have anything to eat there. Maybe she should order something to be sent to him, so he wouldn't starve—then again, he might know it was her and think she was offering an olive branch. She wasn't trying to lure him out.

She picked up her phone and dialed. After three rings, Marie picked up.

"Seriously? I thought I got my point across earlier that I'm on vacation. Do you not know how vacation works? I can explain it to you. I only have a couple days left," she whined.

"Who has my cell phone number?" Roy asked quickly.

"What? I don't know. Who do you give it out to?"

"Only people I really, _really_ like," she answered. "Family members. Friends. And really trustable new people."

"How do you know if they're trustable?"

"I don't know, it depends on where I meet them and what they need the number for.""

"You didn't give it to Kyle, did you?"

"No. How does someone I've never met before know my name and number? And about Tristan?"

"Wow, you're getting in deep, aren't you?" Marie asked in a more concerned voice. "Maybe someone called the phone company."

"Oh man, it could be a guy at the Chinese place, for all I know," Rory said, her imagination running wild. "I have to give them my number for carry out."

"Okay, calm down. I doubt it's anyone from a Chinese restaurant. Why don't you make a list of all the contacts you have in your phone? If you need to, you can call down the list to see if it's any of them. Maybe someone's playing a joke."

"It's a really sick joke," Rory said ruefully. She picked up a pen and pad of paper. When she picked up her cell phone, the time glowed at her. "Shoot. I have to get over to Penn Station. I'm baby-sitting this weekend."

"You're baby-sitting? _This_ weekend? You're not the best person for the job right now."

"You think?" Rory asked desperately. "I can't do anything about it. The boys are on their way. I have to go."

"All right, try to calm down," Marie said before they both hung up.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

It was nearly the end of the day when the detectives returned to the precinct. After they'd gone over everything from that day, they made a game plan for Saturday. Tristan noticed the light flashing on his phone, indicating a missed message.

He picked it up and dialed to hear his voicemail. His heart sped up a little when he heard Rory's voice. He barely paid attention to what she actually said. He was listening to her tone, trying to gage whether or not she sounded mad. He had to listen to it a few times, and he concluded that she didn't sound angry. After he hung the phone up, he made a note about Erika Hart's boyfriend.

Tristan looked up at his partner. "Tell me the answer."

Mark looked over at him. "What?"

"The answer to your stupid riddle. Am I the wagon or the star?"

"I told you to figure it out yourself."

Tristan shook his head. "I can't, I'm going to get it wrong. And you know what? You can't even see the stars in New York City," he rambled. "How am I supposed to figure out who the star is, when I can't even _see_ the stars?"

"I see you're back to overthinking things again," Stevenson observed wryly.

"I think it's safer. Now tell me which one I am. Maybe it'll help me explain myself."

"There's an easier way to explain yourself," Mark said as he rearranged the items on his desk. "You want to make an official commitment to you girlfriend—preferably in the traditional way."

"Shut up, no I don't," Tristan said quickly.

Mark shook his head. "I didn't realize being around third graders would make you _act_ like one."

"I'm not acting like a third grader."

"Fine, then you're in denial. More grown up?" he asked flatly. "I'm not a licensed professional in the mental health field. But my guess is, you've been telling yourself that you don't want to get married because you think _she_ doesn't want to. I think it's a coping mechanism." Mark nodded, convinced that his assessment was accurate.

"Stop trying to psychoanalyze me," Tristan said indignantly.

"Sure thing. I don't want to be in your head any more than you do."

Tristan didn't say anything. He just glowered as he drummed his fingers on his desk for a while, wondering how he should proceed.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A couple hours later, Tristan was parked in front of Olivia's art studio. He wondered why she hadn't closed up yet. He had been sitting in his car for about ten minutes, trying to decide if he was going to go up or not. He still didn't know what he was going to say, but was hoping something would come to him when he saw Rory. He wondered if she maybe went back home for the weekend. It would make sense. Then he thought about how she'd probably go to dinner at her grandparents—and they'd ask about him. He cringed. He could only hope that she told them that he had to work.

Tristan shook his head. "This is stupid," he said to himself as he grabbed a couple plastic bags from the passenger side seat. He got out of his car and went to the art gallery door.

Olivia met him, she had the building keys. "Finally. I was wondering if you were ever coming in," she said as she locked the door behind him.

"Oh. Sorry," he said. "Uh, is Rory here?"

"Yeah, of course. They're upstairs."

They? Tristan wondered as he walked to the back stairs. He went up to the second floor and stopped when he was in front of Rory's door. He lifted his hand and paused. He exhaled determinedly and knocked. It felt odd to do so, he hadn't knocked on her door in a while.

He felt nervous when he heard the locks being undone. The door swung open and Rory was on the other side. He noted that she didn't blush when she saw him this time. On the contrary, she looked pale. She even looked a little worried.

He point back towards the stairs. "Uh, I can go, if you don't want—"

He was cut off when Rory stepped forward and hugged him—rather tightly. "Um, hi?" he said, confused. He started to wonder if Wednesday happened. He was pretty sure it had. It was a pretty vivid memory. "Are you okay?" he asked her.

The side of her face was pressed against his chest and he felt her nod.

"I'm fine. Come in," she said, pulling him inside.

He watched her as she looked both ways down the hallway before she closed the door. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," she said as she relocked the door. She turned to face him and looked him over. "How are you?"

"Fine," he answered slowly. He glanced over into the living room and saw two boys sitting in front of a board game. If he had to guess, he'd say they were nine years old. He felt like he was a pretty good judge at this point.

He turned back to Rory. "I know I haven't seen you in a day or so, but I didn't think that was enough time for you to have a couple Asian kids."

She pursed her lips. "That's Steve and Kwan. Lane's kids. I'm baby-sitting this weekend. I'm pretty sure you've met them."

"I don't think we've been formally introduced."

"Boys," Rory called out as she walked toward them. "You know Tristan, don't you?" she asked them.

The identical black haired boys looked up at him. One boy nodded and the other shook his head, "No."

"Oh, well. That's Tristan," Rory told them.

Tristan held up a hand as a wave

"Hi," both boys said.

"Is it my turn?" Rory asked them.

"Yes," one of the boys answered.

Rory tossed a dice and moved her playing piece. When she'd finished her turn, she headed for the kitchen and gestured for Tristan to follow.

He put the bags he had on the kitchen island. "I brought food," he explained as he showed her the Chinese food in one of the bags.

Rory checked out the other bag, which was full of Pop Tarts. "Are you feeding an army?"

"No, just you. But isn't it about the same?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so," she took the boxes over to the pantry.

"I thought you might be out. You were running low the last time I was here," Tristan said anxiously. "Uh, Wednesday."

"Right, Wednesday," Rory said, turning back to him slowly. "Sorry I overacted."

"What?" Tristan asked. He was the one who was supposed to be apologizing. What the hell was going on tonight?

Rory nodded. "I blew the whole thing out of proportion. I mean, you were just joking around."

"Oh, uh, yeah. But I was still pretty stupid," he said with knit brows. "I didn't really know what I was doing."

"It's okay," she insisted again. "It was just a prize, no big deal. Don't worry about it."

Tristan wasn't sure why he was getting off the hook so easily. But he also wasn't going to press the issue. It wasn't like he came up with anything to say for himself. Other than what Mark said that afternoon before they left work. Tristan definitely wasn't going to use _that_ as his explanation.

"Uh, anyway," he went on. He decided to change the subject. Might as well, she was letting his stupidity slide. "I went home tonight. But I realized something."

"What?" Rory asked.

"I don't really like it there anymore."

"That's probably because all the stuff you like is here," she reasoned. "You knew that already."

"Yeah, all the stuff I really love is here," he agreed, looking at her meaningfully.

Rory stared back at him for a moment.

She cleared her throat and pointed to the living room. "Uh, I think it's my turn. I'll be right back."

Tristan smelled something in the oven and he got up to investigate. There were chicken nuggets and French fries baking. So, he turned back to the Chinese he'd brought and stuck it in the refrigerator.

"I think I'm losing the game," Rory commented as she returned.

"I can make you a winner later," Tristan said without thinking. His eyes widened guiltily. "Sorry, that was inappropriate."

Rory raised a brow at him. "You're just being true to yourself."

Tristan thought she was being awfully forgiving of him tonight.

The timer went off on the microwave and Rory grabbed a potholder before she took the pan out of the oven. Tristan found some clean plates and condiments, then took it all to the island.

"Steve, Kwan, dinner's ready," she called.

The boys came in and Tristan gave them each a plate. Everyone helped themselves to the fries and chicken nuggets before going to the living room. Steve and Kwan took a seat on the floor and Tristan and Rory sat on the couch.

"Okay, did you guys decide what movie to watch?" Rory asked as she turned on television.

"_Spy Kids_," Steve and Kwan said at the same time.

Tristan tilted his head closer to Rory and asked, "Do they do that all the time?"

"Only enough to be cute, but not enough to be annoying," she answered reassuringly.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that night, Rory was in the kitchen by herself. She was sitting at the island, which was half covered with papers. Everyone was in the living room. Steve and Kwan passed on the spare bedroom, instead opting to camp out on the living room floor. Rory had them get ready for bed before they fell asleep during the movie. And sure enough, they were out like lights an hour later. That included Tristan, from his place on the couch.

Rory was looking through the information she had about the jewelry heist and subsequent shooting. She also checked out the list of contacts stored in her phone. She had five names circled. They were names of people she didn't need numbers for anymore, but planned checked out. Since the person calling her was a male, she crossed off three of the female. That left her with two. And she knew which one she wanted to find out about first.

When she heard Tristan get up and head for the kitchen, she put the list in the folder and closed it.

"Hey," he said in a drowsy voice. "What are you doing in here?"

"Just going over some stuff for work," she answered, not completely untruthfully. "I wrote a review about that Italian place we went to last weekend."

"Oh. Yeah, that place was good," he said as he went to the sink and ran some water for the dirty dishes. He turned to her while he waited for the sink to fill. Rory thought he looked a little pensive. But maybe he was just tired. "What are you going to do next?" he inquired.

Rory shrugged. "I'm not sure. I might work my way through all the sections of the paper before I get back to crime," she answered. Then she smiled. "I'm thinking I might do sports next."

"What?" Tristan asked as he turned the hot water off. He seemed confused, and she couldn't really blame him.

"Yeah. Maybe they'll let me write a column. It'll be from a woman's perspective, for other women like me—who don't know anything about sports. I can highlight the important parts."

"That isn't what I meant."

"What did you mean then?"

"I meant, what are you going to do after the _Daily News_?"

Rory frowned. "What do you mean?" she asked again, slower this time.

"You were taking a break from politics, right?" he asked.

Rory walked over to the sink to dry the dishes as he washed them. "Yeah."

"It was just a break, though, wasn't it—just for now?"

"Well, kind of. But I haven't really felt the desire to go back. Our lawmakers act like a bunch of selfish children. They haven't made me eager to return."

"Still," Tristan went on. "You want to write about more important things than crime in New York, don't you?"

"Why? Don't you think crime is important?"

He shrugged. "Sure. It's just smaller scale than what you want to do," he said as he handed her a wet dish. "Right?"

"I guess."

"I mean, if a revolution broke out in northern Africa," Tristan continued, "you'd want to go cover it, wouldn't you?"

Rory was wondering where this was all coming from. "I'm not sure."

"Nah, you'd want to go," he said assuredly. "It's what you've always wanted to do. It'd be a no brainer."

She thought for a minute. "Hypothetically, I'd want to go."

"Hypothetical isn't real," he said.

"No. It's hypothetical."

"What is there to think about?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the dish he was rinsing off.

"Well," she started slowly as she put a stack of plates in the cabinet, "take the presidential campaign, for example. It wasn't as glamorous as you'd think. It can be pretty grueling." She thought about it some more. "I did learn a couple important things, though."

"Like what?"

"First of all, I learned that I have to have respect for the people that I'm writing about. I don't like writing about people who don't deserve the attention." She frowned. "I don't really want to be a pundit either. No one ever thinks good things about pundits."

"Okay," Tristan said. "What was the other thing you learned?"

"Well, after traveling for so long on the campaign trail, even though I was proud of the work I did, it still felt good to come home. Coming home felt just as rewarding as filing reports." She tried to summarize her point, "If I go out to cover a big important story, I want to know where home is."

Tristan shrugged. "In my experience, a house is not a home."

"That's true," she said. She thought about what her mother had said the night before, about having someone who was there no matter what. She also remembered that she didn't want to spook him again. She continued carefully, "It's the people there that make it home." She glanced at him timidly.

He nodded. "Yeah," he agreed as he let the water out of the sink. "That makes a difference."

Rory hoped he wasn't saying that absentmindedly. He turned to her. A couple seconds ticked by before she asked, "So what do you want to do now?"

"Go to bed."

"To do what?"

"Sleep."

"Want to do anything else first?" She wiggled her eyebrows a little.

He frowned and glanced in the living room. "What?"

She nodded. "You haven't been here in a couple days. Come on," she said, tilting her head toward the hall. She took his hand and pulled, but he didn't move.

"The boys are right in there," he protested.

"So? They're asleep."

"So, I don't know. It doesn't feel right."

"Maybe that's because we're standing in the kitchen. Come on."

He was still hesitant.

She furrowed her brows at him. "Do you think Lane and Zach haven't had sex in ten years?"

"_Shh_," he said as he put a finger to his lips and nervously glanced in the living room again. He shrugged and answered, "Probably."

She laughed a little and shook her head. "I don't think so." She let his hand go before she turned and walked down the hall.

Tristan followed. "You're like the worst baby-sitter ever," he said. "Or the best. I'm not sure."

"There's a fine line," Rory said as they walked into the bedroom and she closed the door behind them.


	5. Do it for the Kids

**Title**: Ain't Life Grand

**Chapter 5**: Do it for the Kids

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: Thank you for all the reviews! And thanks to Anybody Anywhere again, for advice and opinions.

_Our job is not to make up anybody's mind, but to open minds and to make the agony of the decision-making so intense you can escape only by thinking. –Author Unknown_

**Do it for the Kids**

On Saturday morning, Rory was on the phone, mumbling every once in a while to prove that she was listening to her friend. Paris was not going to get her out of bed _this_ Saturday morning. Rory kept her eyes closed and her head on her pillow as she continued to listen.

"Mm-hmm. Got it," she said tiredly. "I'll pass them on—if there _are_ any. . . Good luck. Bye, Paris," she said before hanging up. Rory put the phone down and pulled the covers over her head as she sighed.

"She's getting into a bad habit," Tristan commented. He was standing at the doorway, leaning against the frame. He had been listening to the one sided conversation as he drank a cup of coffee. "What did she want _this_ week?"

Rory peeked out from under the covers. "She wanted to know if anyone e-mailed me questions about my health article last week. Because she wants to field the questions. You know, since I don't know anything about medicine."

"That sounds about right," he said.

She gasped suddenly and looked up. "I'm baby-sitting! Steve and Kwan are probably up. Kids get up really early."

"Don't worry. I made them pancakes," Tristan said as he sat down on the bed beside Rory.

"Oh. Good," she said as she put her head down. But then she processed the information and started to get up again. "You made them _pancakes_?"

Tristan smiled and shook his head. "No. But I set them up with some cereal and cartoons. I let Lucy in, too. She said she wanted to watch cartoons with them. Except I have a feeling she was going to watch cartoons anyway."

Rory sat up against the headboard, next to Tristan.

"So, was the good doctor on her way to an early surgery?" he asked as he handed over a second cup of coffee.

"No. That would have made sense. She and Doyle have a big day of looking at houses."

The mug in Tristan's hand stopped before it reached his mouth. "Where?"

"Worcester."

"Worcester, Massachusetts?" he asked hopefully.

"That's the one," Rory answered.

Tristan exhaled in relief. "We really dodged a bullet with that one. I was worried they'd move here."

"Well you can rest easy. Doyle has a good job at the _Telegram & Gazette_. And Worcester has good private schools—according to Paris."

"Why does that matter?" Tristan asked.

"Well Detective, why do you _think_ a young married couple would care about the quality of schools when looking for a place to settle down?"

"Since we're talking about Paris, I'd really rather _not_ think about it."

"Anyway," Rory went on, "it was Doyle's turn to decide where to live."

"Wow, forty minutes from Boston. And here I thought Paris wore the pants," Tristan said sarcastically.

Rory took another sip of coffee as she thought about it a moment. "She probably feels like she owes him."

"Of course she owes him. He's put up with her for ten years."

"Paris is an old friend of mine, I can't believe you'd say that about her," Rory said. "Actually, Doyle never had a problem with moving to Boston when Paris decided to go to Harvard. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she tried to break up with him and he wouldn't let her."

"I thought Paris's word is always final," Tristan commented. "How did that work?"

"Doyle put his foot down. He waltzed back into out apartment and told her to choose a graduate school and he'd go with her—no matter where it was. And he did," Rory explained before she took a sip of coffee. "I guess he just had a feeling that Paris was worth it."

"Oh," Tristan said.

"What, no clever retort about that? I know you want to make one."

He smiled and held up a finger as he took a drink of coffee. He let Rory's words sink in. No zinger came to mind, though. Something else did—a high flying star. "_Oh_," he said. "Huh." He grinned and laughed a little to himself. He felt like a weight was lifted from his shoulders.

"What?" Rory asked.

Tristan shook his head. "Nothing. I just . . . got something," he answered, still grinning. "You know, I probably won't want to be a detective forever."

"What?" she asked with knit brows, caught off guard by his non sequitur.

He nodded. "I might get tired of being a detective someday."

Rory narrowed her eyes to scrutinize his face as she took a long sip. She slowly sat the cup down and put a hand to his forehead. "Are you feeling all right?"

He swatted her hand away. "I'm fine."

"You're sure you're okay? Because I think you just said you might not always want to be a detective."

"It's true. I might not."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"When?" she asked with a smile of disbelief.

He shrugged. "I may have to find something else to do one day—due to . . . circumstances—in life," he said in a slightly rambling manner.

"Is this your way of telling me that you did something to get fired?"

"No."

Rory frowned. "I can't picture you ever giving up your key to the city. At least, not willingly."

"It's not as sexy and glamorous as I make it seem," he said. "Sometimes there are late nights interrogating suspects."

"And getting called in the middle of the night to look at a dead body."

"Right. We can't forget the dead bodies and how they got that way. I might get really cynical and lose all faith in humanity one day," Tristan explained. "If I start to get obsessed with finding murderers and it drives me to alcoholism, it'll be time to get out of the game."

"Okay," she said slowly. "So what will you do instead?"

"Rory, I can do lots of things," he said with mock condescension. "I went to Yale."

"Is that so?" she asked with interest.

"It is." He stopped and pointed a finger at her. "Wait, you knew that, right?"

"Yes. I'm just surprised that you didn't say Harvard."

He shrugged. "What do you do with a BA in history?"

Rory smiled. "Go live on Avenue Q?"

"Mm-hmm. Or go to law school."

"Okay. So what are you going to do?"

"Well," Tristan started. He had to pause and think about it a moment. "I could practice patent law."

Rory snorted and began to laugh.

"What? You don't think I could do it?"

"It's not a question of can or can't. It's a matter of you not wanting to."

"I could do it," he insisted.

Rory patted him on the arm. "I'm sure you could. For about a week. Then you'd get bored."

"Fine. Maybe I don't want to be a patent lawyer," he conceded. He took a sip of coffee and thought some more. "I could be a law professor."

Rory smiled widely and raised a brow.

"You don't think I could do that either?" he asked.

"Oh no," she said eagerly. "I can picture you now, patiently lecturing a hall full of students, who are all a bunch of ambitious sharks."

Tristan's eyes glazed over a bit as he pictured it. He shook his head. "No. I'm not doing that."

"You're funny today, Harvard," Rory said with a grin. She reached over to pick her coffee mug back up. "What else can you do?"

He shook his head and stood up. He sat his coffee cup on the dresser and took his shirt off. "I could be a stripper."

Rory tilted her head a little, to get a better view. "You'd probably make good money."

"Too bad I'm not the one in the room with a stripper name."

"Mm-hmm," she muttered. She glanced at the scar on his side and remembered the threat against him. She threw the blanket back and got up as he put on a navy t-shirt with 'Police' written in white on the back. She sat her coffee mug down next to his.

"Hey, what are you doing?" she asked, standing in front of him and holding onto his sides.

"I'm getting dressed to go to work. Your investigative skills must be off today, Doll Face."

"Wouldn't you rather stay here? You can keep telling me all the other jobs you could have. I bet we could come up with something that you'd like."

"I have to go," he said again. "But I'll be back."

"Call in sick and stay here."

"I can't. We're meeting with those Special Victims detectives." He tried to take a step away from Rory, but she grabbed a fist full of his t-shirt in each hand. Grinning a little, he ran his hands down her arms until he reached her hands.

"It's really going to be better if I show up wearing pants," he said quietly. He tried to pry her fingers off his shirt, but she held on tightly. He frowned and looked down. It took him a moment before he was able to free himself. "Are you okay?"

Rory hugged herself, not sure what to do with her hands if she couldn't use them to stop him. "I'm fine. I just—wish you could stay."

"I'll only be at work for a few hours. Then I'll be back. You won't even know I was gone," he said as he put on his pants. "This isn't the first Saturday I've gone into work. I'm surprised the concept is so new to you today."

"It's not new," she said. "I just—"

"Wish I could stay. Message received," he said as he stepped back over to her, close enough to give her a quick kiss. He picked up the empty coffee cups and headed out of the room.

Rory followed. She said good morning to Lucy and the boys before going to the kitchen, where Tristan was filling her cup with more coffee. He handed it to her before continued on his way out.

"Hey, do you have your vest?" she asked as they stopped at the door.

He frowned at her and shrugged. "It's somewhere."

"Somewhere? Don't you think you should know where it is? In case you need it?"

"I know where it is. But I'm not planning on getting shot today."

Well sure, no one _plans_ it, Rory thought. And it would be her fault if anything happened to him today.

"All right," she said resolutely. She went on, and tried not to sound crazy, "Just be careful. Okay?"

"Okay."

She looked up at him with knit brows. "I love you."

He nodded. "I know. Thanks," he said. He kissed her one more time before he left the apartment.

Rory waited until he had gone down the stairs before she walked to the end of the hallway. She looked out the window anxiously and waited for him to walk out to his car. She was listening closely for—what? Gunshots? A car bomb? Whatever it was, she was powerless to stop it. She bit her lip nervously as Tristan exited the building and unlocked the car door. He got in and drove away. Everything looked fine. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, Rory let out a breath of relief.

She put her free hand on her hip and shook her head. "No way am I doing _this_ every morning."

She determinedly turned around and went back inside her apartment. She went to her living room and stopped at the couch. "Hey Lucy. I need to go to work for an hour—maybe two. Could you stay here with Steve and Kwan?"

Lucy turned around and gave a wave. "Go ahead, we're all set here."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Forty-five minutes later, Rory got out of a cab near the Columbia University campus. She walked a few blocks until she reached the student center. She was not on campus to do research today. And she wasn't on a coffee break, though she went straight to the coffee stand, where a young woman was working.

"What can I get you?" she asked Rory with a smile.

"Nothing actually. I was wondering if you know Freddy. Freddy Levin, he works here."

The woman frowned and hesitated. "Oh, uh, Freddy? Well—"

Rory was satisfied with the woman's hesitance. "He goes by a different last name now, so maybe you've never heard his real last name."

"No, I have," the barista said. "I just didn't think he told anyone that last name anymore."

"Really? Why not?" Rory asked, not backing down.

"He just asked that we not call him by that name anymore. He said he wanted to go by his mother's maiden name. He said she raised him, so he wanted to take her last name."

Rory could relate to the story, however, she did not buy the reasoning in Freddy's case. "How long ago did he decide to change his name?"

"I think it was about five or six months ago."

Rory nodded, it was enough confirmation for her. "Can you tell me his address?" she asked.

The woman behind the counter hesitated gain. "Oh, I'm really not allowed to give out personal information."

"It's okay," Rory said reassuringly. "He and I had a summer class together. We were in the same study group. I borrowed one of his books and just want to return it."

"You could leave it here and I could give it to him," the woman offered. "He's supposed to come in this afternoon."

"I'd really like to give it to him myself. I wrote some comments in and I want to explain some of them in person. Really, he knows me. He won't mind," Rory said confidently.

The woman looked like she still didn't want to. But she went to check a list of employee addresses anyway. She came back to Rory with a sticky note. Rory read the address and pursed her lips ruefully. She was going to solve _one_ mystery yet today.

"Thanks," she told the woman. Rory was about to go, when she remembered something important. "Oh, can you tell me who was working here last Thursday? Around mid-day?"

"Yeah, it was me and Freddy. His morning shift overlaps my afternoon shift, so there are two people here during lunch."

Rory nodded, hearing all she needed to hear. "I think I _will_ take a coffee now."

After Rory had her drink, she went back outside and caught another cab. She gave the driver a midtown address and sat back as she decided what she was going to do. She wasn't happy with her former classmate, _that_ was for sure. But she also wasn't scared anymore.

By the time the driver let her out at the Sixth Avenue address, Rory was glowering. She looked across the street to Tristan's building before turning to walk into the apartment where Courtney Rivers' body had been found. She went to the elevator and rode it up to the fifteenth floor and stepped off.

As she walked slowly down the hall, she took out her phone and found the number she was looking for. She dialed and listened to the phone ring. She did not block her number. She heard the voicemail pick up as she stopped in front of the door she was looking for. She knocked and waited.

When the door swung open, Freddy was on the other side, frowning down at his phone. He looked up at Rory and froze.

"What's wrong, Frederick?" she asked. "You don't want to chat when _I'm_ the one doing the calling?"

From somewhere inside the apartment, Rory heard someone ask, "Who's here?"

"Who was that?" Rory asked, a little less confidently.

Without answering her question, Freddy grabbed Rory's arm and yanked her into the apartment.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

At the precinct, Tristan and Mark were taking a break from talking with businessmen—and their lawyers—to talk with Erika Hart's landlord, Edward Waters. They were sitting at a table in one of the interrogation rooms.

"Mr. Waters," Stevenson started. "It's come to our attention that Courtney Rivers was exchanging money for sex in Erika Hart's apartment. Did you know anything about that?"

The middle aged man across from the detectives shook his head. "What do you mean?"

Tristan frowned, thinking the explanation was pretty clear. "Men were paying her for sex," he answered bluntly. "Did you know anything about that?"

Waters' face got red. "How many?"

"How many guys did she take up there?" Mark asked for clarification.

The man nodded as he scowled.

"Uh, around ten, that we know of," Mark answered.

The man looked upset at this. "She was doing that up in the apartment I manage?" When the detectives nodded in confirmation, he said, "That's illegal, isn't it? Am I in trouble? I didn't know she was doing that in my building."

"No, you aren't in trouble for what she was doing," Tristan said. "We were just wondering if you knew anything about it."

Waters shook his head. "No. I didn't know about it."

"You saw her there with Paul Hart, but you didn't see her go up with any other guys?" Mark asked.

"No. They must not have gone up there at the same time." Waters shook his head again angrily. "I can't believe she was doing that up there."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, in Freddy's cramped studio apartment, Rory stared with wide eyes at a man sitting at a small kitchen table. She was pretty sure she'd seen his picture before, though his hair was died a lighter color.

"Who is that?" she asked Freddy as she pointed a finger at the man. She really didn't want to know the answer.

Freddy didn't respond right away. "Uh, well, that's my brother."

"Jeff?" she asked in horror. "Jeff Levin? The one who's supposed to be in _jail_?"

"I got out," the man replied.

"Not because they _let_ you!" Rory covered her face and started to pace. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," she muttered. "This is bad, this is bad. This is really _really_ bad. I should have waited for your shift to start at the student center. I just _had_ to spring for the element of surprise. What was I thinking?" she asked herself desperately. Then she shook her head. "I wasn't thinking. I wouldn't have done something this stupid if I was thinking."

"Why did you let her in?" Jeff Levin asked his brother.

Freddy shrugged. "I wasn't sure what to do."

"Who is she?"

"Someone I had a class with this summer. She was in the graduate journalism school."

"She's a _journalist_?" Jeff asked incredulously. "Are you stupid?"

"No," Freddy said defensively. "She's a reporter. A crime reporter. I wanted her to help."

"She's going to tell someone I'm here," Jeff protested.

Freddy thought a moment while Rory paced. "No she isn't," he said quickly. "She's a reporter." He looked at her. "You're a reporter. You can't tell anyone about this, it's off the record."

Rory stopped and looked at him in disbelief. "You're harboring a fugitive."

"But he didn't do it!" Freddy protested.

"The _jury_ said he did!"

"They got it wrong."

"I have to go," she said, trying to get to the door. Freddy stood in her way. "You have to let me go."

"Where?"

She scowled at him. "Don't worry about it."

"You can't go."

"Yes I can. I have to go see someone."

"Let her go," Jeff said. "I'll find somewhere else to stay. No one has to know I was here."

Freddy shook his head. "No. I'm not letting her go. She's going to go straight to the police."

"Fine. Let her," Jeff said again. "Just give me a head start first."

Rory nodded vigorously. "I like that idea."

"No," Freddy said again. "She can help."

"No I _can't_," she said firmly. "You can't hold me hostage. And I'm _not_ going to be your accomplice in this."

"Well you can't go telling the police about everything. I told you it was off the record. You can't—"

"_Print_ something off the record. I can't print it. I'm not going to _print_ it," she said.

"Well we're sources then. You can't reveal those, can you?"

Rory shook her head miserably. "You're going to get me arrested." Then she considered the unpleasant thought and went a step further. Along with the panic, she felt her heart sink. "Oh my God. Tristan is going to break up with me. He'll have to arrest me first, but then he'll definitely break up with me. He'd have to be an idiot _not_ to. And there's no way he'll defend me in court," she rambled. She blinked rapidly to hold back tears. "Maybe he'll take pity on me and recommend a good attorney. He should know some from law school."

Jeff looked at his brother. "What is she talking about?"

"Uh, I think I know, but she kind of lost me there at the end."

Rory looked at the fugitive. "I'm talking about my boyfriend—who I'd rather not get dumped by because of this."

"Your boyfriend has the power to arrest people?" Jeff asked disbelievingly. He sounded worried.

She nodded in response.

Jeff looked at Freddy again. "Her boyfriend is a cop? You went to get help from a reporter, whose boyfriend is a _cop_?"

"Detective," Rory corrected absentmindedly. "He's working on the case upstairs." She started to pace again as she muttered under her breath about curiosity killing the cat.

"What were you saying about law school?" Jeff asked Rory carefully.

She nodded. "He has a law degree."

Jeff turned to his brother. "Oh bravo."

"In my defense, I did _not_ know that part," Freddy said.

"What were you thinking?" Jeff asked.

Freddy shrugged, feeling the animosity in the room. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn't think she'd figure out it was me who was calling."

Rory turned on him and pointed a finger at him accusingly. "You threatened to _kill_ him," she said. "And by the way, I know you were working last Thursday. So you couldn't have killed anyone."

"What is she talking about now?" Jeff asked.

Freddy looked guilty. "I may have told her that I killed Courtney Rivers. And then said her boyfriend would be next if she told him. I was trying to scare her—just a little."

"You threatened to kill the lawyer cop?" Jeff shook his head and buried his face in his hands.

"You don't know who really killed her then, do you?" Rory grimly asked Freddy. "You weren't here."

"_I_ was," Jeff answered from behind his hand. He pointed over to an air vent up high on the wall, near the ceiling. "I could hear everything that went on upstairs. I never needed to watch TV. I'd just listen to what was going on up in Erika's apartment."

"Then go tell the police," Rory told him, not really caring about the murderer's identity at this point.

"I can't, they'll put me back in jail," Jeff said. "I'd like to help, but I can't. My—"

"Hands are tied," she finished dryly, using the phrase Freddy had used. She looked at Freddy. "And you can't say that _you_ were the one to hear, because a defense attorney will find out that you weren't here at the time of the murder."

"I want to help. Really," Freddy said earnestly. "But I want Jeff's name cleared first."

Rory glared at him. "So you decided to play chess with my _life_?"

"I thought you could figure out what really happened," he reasoned. "Plus, your boyfriend used to meet you for coffee in the student center sometimes. And I could tell he was a cop."

"Was it the gun that tipped you off?" Rory asked, not impressed with his investigative skills.

"Yeah. And the badge."

"That'll do it," she said with a nod.

"I guess I was hoping he was one of those rogue cops. You know, that don't always follow orders. So maybe he'd be willing to help—if you _did_ tell him."

"He _became_ a cop to rebel. Being rogue on top of that would just be overkill," Rory said exasperatedly. "And he doesn't break the rules. He knows them too well." She shook her head. "I'm used to people at work taking advantage of my relationship. But I have to admit, this one is new. I can't believe you're putting me in this position."

She exhaled heavily and tried to calm herself down a little. She had to figure out what to do. She knew what she _wanted_ to do. She started pacing again, this time with determination. "Okay, he doesn't know that I know a fugitive. Why would he think that?" she asked herself. "Well for one thing, he wouldn't think that, because it's crazy. And for another, he'd probably assume that I'd _tell_ him if I did."

"I said it was off the record," Freddy said quickly. "Oh hey, I can keep threatening him, if it would help," he offered.

"How would that help?" Rory asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know. You could claim you were afraid to say anything."

"You are so stupid," Jeff said from his place at the table.

She sighed, defeated. "Fine. We'll go with the story that you're sources. At least he _expects_ me to get arrested for protecting a source's identity," she reasoned. She was aware that she was justifying it in her mind, but it was the only way she was going to be able to act like a normal person when she left this apartment.

She turned to Jeff and pulled a chair out across from him. "You say you didn't kill that cop?" she asked as she sat down.

Jeff shook his head. "I didn't kill anyone."

"And if someone finds out what really happened, you'll tell the police who killed Courtney Rivers."

Jeff nodded.

"Tell me what happened the night you robbed the jewelry store."

"So you're going to help us?" Freddy asked eagerly as he took a seat at the table.

Rory glared at him. "I'll try to help your brother. I am not helping _you_." She turned back to Jeff. "I saw in the surveillance video where you and Crabtree cased the place."

Jeff sat back in his chair and crossed his arms as he thought about the night of the robbery. "Yeah, we went earlier that day. We scoped everything out, found the cameras. So that night, we went back to Satya. We got in fine, no problem."

"You'd done it before, right?" Rory asked, getting into reporter mode. "You have a record."

"Yeah, that's right," Jeff conceded. "Our family never had much money. Freddy and I have been on our own since he was about twelve," he explained. "So yeah, I did what I had to do. But I was only a thief, not a murderer."

"All right, so your partner-in-crime, Derek Crabtree. What about him?"

Jeff shrugged. "I thought we were in on it together. We've broken into places before. I don't know what happened that night, but he's been lying about it ever since."

"Tell me your version." Rory felt like they should be in an interrogation room.

"Okay. Derek and I were taking jewelry from the cases—we didn't have to break into those because we knew where the keys were kept. And then two cops showed up. So I took what I had and got the hell out of there. Another cop caught up with me before I got more than a few blocks away. They took me in, and the next thing I knew, they charged me with shooting a cop."

"But you weren't there to see who did the shooting?" Rory asked slowly.

Jeff shook his head. "No, I was gone."

"See?" Freddy said. "I told you he didn't do it."

Rory and Jeff both glared at him and said, "Shut up."

Jeff continued, "They separated me and Derek at the police station. For some reason, he told everyone that _I_ struggled with one of the cops and got his gun away. Then shot his partner with it. When the cops told me his story, it was new to me."

"The other officer, Douglas Aldred, agreed with Crabtree's statement," Rory said. "Why would they both have the same story if it isn't true?"

Jeff shrugged. "That's what I want to know."

Rory sighed. "So I guess those two are the only ones who know the truth. Do you think Derek was the one who really shot Officer Young and lied about it?" she asked.

"I don't know," Jeff said. "Would it make sense for a cop to lie about who shot his partner? Especially when both of the suspects were caught?"

She shook her head. "No. Why would they lie?"

"Beats me. But when it's two against one—and one is a cop—you can guess which story is going to be believed."

"Didn't they notice that your fingerprints weren't on the gun?"

Jeff gave her a rueful look. "There wouldn't have been any either way, I was wearing gloves."

"Of course you were. You wouldn't want to get any pesky fingerprints on the jewelry cases," Rory said. "And I guess you regret covering the security camera."

Jeff nodded. "Pretty much every day."

Rory stared out a window as she thought about what to do. "So, let's say _hypothetically_, that the truth comes out—somehow. You'll tell the police who killed Courtney Rivers?" she asked.

Jeff nodded again. "I'll tell them everything I ever heard going on upstairs."

Rory was starting to feel like it was all up to her. She made one more plea, "Can't just go to the police? They could look into your case again."

He shook his head. "No they won't. They think I killed one of their brothers. They don't take that lightly."

"No, they don't," Rory agreed. "_I_ don't take it lightly, either. Aldred and Crabtree are the only ones who know what really happened. I'll have to track them down."

"So you _will_ help?" Freddy asked hopefully.

She looked at him evenly. "I'll try to help your brother." She paused and looked back at Jeff before she continued. "But I am _not_ going to go to jail for you. If someone asks where you are, I will tell."

"That sounds fair," he said, before his brother could say anything stupid.

Rory looked at her watch. "I have to go." Tristan was right. She _was_ the worst baby-sitter ever. She looked at Freddy. "Don't call me anymore. I'll call you."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A couple hours later, Rory was in her kitchen. When she'd gotten back, she made more coffee and sat the boys up at the kitchen island with paper and their crayons. She was pouring herself coffee when she heard a key in the door. Tristan walked into the apartment and joined them in the kitchen.

"Hey," she said. She put her coffee down and wrapped both arms around him.

"Hi." He put an arm around her shoulders. "You're very affectionate lately."

"Sorry," she said as she let him go.

"I wasn't _complaining_ or anything. It was just an observation," he said as he looked over at Steve and Kwan. "What's going on?"

"We're coloring," Steve answered, looking up from his paper briefly.

"Ah, fun," Tristan commented.

"Here's mine," Kwan said as he held his paper up. It was a picture of a band. He pointed to the people. "That's Dad playing the guitar and there's Mom playing drums. And there's me."

"What are you playing? Bass?" Tristan asked.

Kwan nodded proudly. "Yeah. Brain teaches me."

"Cool," Rory complimented. "But where's Steve?"

"He doesn't know how to play anything," Kwan said.

"Mom says it's okay though," Steve said quickly, on the defensive side.

"Well sure," Rory said. "I don't have any musical talent at all. And it's okay."

Steven nodded in agreement and went back to his drawing.

Rory turned to Tristan. "How was work?"

He took something out from his back pocket. It was a piece of paper that he unfolded. "Oh, fine. We talked to most of these guys today."

Rory took the paper and skimmed it as she took a sip of coffee. It looked like copies of business cards.

"We found those cards in Courtney Rivers' apartment," Tristan explained. "Let's call it her Rolodex."

"Who are they?"

"Some gentlemen callers." He lowered his voice, "Who took advantage of her services."

"Services?"

Tristan didn't say anything, he just raised a brow.

Rory held the paper up so Steve and Kwan couldn't see her face. She lowered her voice too. "Are these _johns_?"

Tristan nodded. "It would appear so."

"Okay, so, were these business cards organized in any certain way?"

"What do you mean? Alphabetical?" he asked innocently.

"No," she whispered. "By the kind of stuff they like?"

"What kind of stuff?" he asked with a small smile.

"You know, since she was tied up."

He smirked and shook his head. "Mary."

She elbowed him in the side. "Did you show me this just to get me to say that?"

Tristan snatched the paper away and put it back in his pocket. "I plead the fifth."

Rory shook her head at him and looked back at the boys. Steve was looking at her rather pensively.

"What's up, Steve?" she asked.

"Is Lorelai your mom?" he inquired.

"Yup. In fact, my _real_ name is Lorelai."

"Oh. Okay," Steve said. But he didn't go back to his picture. "And Sam is your brother?"

"Yes."

"So Lorelai is your mom _and_ Sam's mom?"

"That's right," she said with a nod.

"But he's younger than _us_," Steve protested.

"Yeah. My mom had me and then waited a long time before she had Sam."

"How old are you?" Kwan asked.

"Twenty-nine."

Tristan laughed at that one. He looked at the boys and pointed to Rory. "She's _thirty_."

"Whoa!" both boys said.

"Hey! He's thirty-_one_," she exclaimed, pointing at Tristan.

"Our dad is thirty-one," Kwan said.

"You're mom and I was in the same class at school. Hasn't she told you that?" Rory asked.

"Yeah," both boys answered.

"So you're the same age as our mom and dad?" Steve asked.

"Yes."

Kwan looked at Rory and asked, "Then why don't _you_ have kids?"

"Oh, uh, me?" she asked. They sure knew how to put her on the spot. She looked out the corner of her eye and was happy to see Tristan busy helping himself to some of the Chinese he'd brought the night before. Maybe he hadn't heard the question, she thought hopefully.

"Yeah, the Bible says children are a heritage from the Lord," Steve said as he grabbed a clean sheet of paper.

"Your grandmother must be very proud of you," Rory said dryly. She wondered why the Van Gerbig boys hadn't gotten the memo about not freaking Tristan out. She tried to remain cool as she answered, "I don't have kids because I'm not married. I have to be married before I have kids."

"Why?" Kwan asked.

"Why?" Rory echoed, getting concerned about the direction they were heading. She did not sign up for this conversation.

"Because," Steve answered for her, "kids have to have a mom and a dad."

"Right," she agreed, pointing at Steve. "Kids should have both." She sighed in relief.

"You're dodging bullets all over today," Tristan murmured as he put his plate in the microwave.

Rory just glanced at him briefly. So much for him not listening.

Steve was not finished with the conversation. He added, "You should have kids, so we can play with them."

Kwan nodded in agreement.

She stared at the boys in disbelief. "Oh . . . well," she started, not quite sure how to respond. "You won't want to play with _my_ kids."

"Why not?"

"Because. You're almost ten. So you'll be big kids and they'll be—." She stopped herself from saying babies. That was a sure fire way to scare a guy off. "Younger. They'll be younger."

"We can baby-sit for you then," Steve offered as he picked out a yellow crayon.

"Oh. Thanks. I'll uh, keep that in mind," Rory said. She tried to end the conversation—and prevent Tristan from heading for the hills. She wanted to dismiss any anxiety-provoking ideas that she was in a rush to get started on those kids.

She addressed the boys, "You guys need to calm down and just have some patience. There's plenty of time for all that. So don't worry." She decided to change the subject altogether—it seemed like a safe idea. "Have you ever seen _Freaky Friday_?"

"No," they both answered.

"Well, you'll love it. It's about a mother and a daughter, so you can't go wrong. They switch bodies for a day. And we're going to watch the original. It's a classic." She started to collect the crayons and put them back into the boxes.

"Look at my picture," Steve said proudly, holding up his paper.

Rory looked at it. There were four people on the page. "Is that you and Kwan with your parents?" she asked.

"No, that's you guys," Steve answered matter-of-factly as he pointed from Rory to Tristan.

"Oh, and is that you and Kwan with us?" she asked.

"No. Those are _your_ kids."

Rory froze and felt her face get a little warm. "_My_ kids?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah."

"But I just said I don't have any," she protested.

"I know," Steve said. "Those are the ones you're _going_ to have."

"Ah. I see." She looked at the drawing closer. "Two? I'm going to have two kids?"

"Yes."

She narrowed her eyes at the drawing and tilted her head. "But—are those both boys?"

"Yeah, like us," Steve said, putting an arm around his brother's shoulders.

"Well aren't you two cute?" she asked rhetorically. She picked out a pink crayon and took the picture from Steve. She shook her head. "But I'm not okay with that. Wouldn't it look better if we just change one?" She drew a skirt on one of the boys.

"Now it looks like a girl," Kwan observed.

"Yeah. But doesn't it look more. . ." She stopped. There wasn't a word that would get her out of this one. The picture of her future wasn't looking very fuzzy anymore—and it wasn't just in her head either, thanks to Steve. She glanced at the door and waited for the Tristan shaped hole to appear.

However, it did not appear. Instead, Tristan finished her sentence with, "Even."

She glanced at him fleetingly before agreeing, "Yes. It looks more even. Hey, why don't you guys go to the living room while I finish picking these up?"

"Okay," they said as they climbed down off the stools and left the kitchen.

Rory continued picking up the crayons silently. She had no idea what she was supposed to say for herself after that. There were no words. She kept her back to Tristan to avoid the inevitable awkwardness.

"You know," he commented as he ate the last of his lunch, "I happen to like the remake of _Freak Friday_."

Thankful for the change of subject, Rory smiled a little and said, "Oh yeah? Do you have a thing for Jamie Lee Curtis or something?"

"Maybe I do," he answered. "She's very cool."

"Does she keep you regular?" Rory teased.

He grinned and nodded. "I didn't want you to find out this way," he said. "But actually, I was going to say that she went to Harvard."

"Of course. I should have known."

He nodded again. "Yup, you should have." He sat his empty plate in the sink and went to the living room.

Rory breathed a sigh of relief.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

At the precinct Monday, Tristan turned around in his swivel chair after the morning briefing. He opened a file folder with copies of the jewelry receipts from Satya. So far, they hadn't found any names that matched one of the men from the business cards. He was leafing through the receipts when he glanced at the note he made for himself last week. It was the note from the voicemail Rory left him.

Tristan looked across the desks to his partner. "Hey, what's the name of Erika Hart's boyfriend?"

Mark looked through his notes and answered, "John Bell."

Tristan nodded and scanned the list of names from the business cards. John Bell was not one of them. So he returned to the receipts. He carefully read the names of people who bought Satya's Passionate Possibilities Necklace.

After fifteen minutes of searching, Tristan circled a name and handed it over to Stevenson. "It looks like Erika got her necklace from her boyfriend," he said. "It was a couple months ago."

Tristan returned to the other receipts. He turned a page and said, "This is interesting." He circled a name again and handed it over for his partner to see. "It looks like he went back a couple days later and bought another."

"I wonder why he needed two," Mark said, not really wondering.

"All right, so what?" Tristan said as he sat back in his chair and thought about it. "Bell had a thing on the side with Rivers?"

"Maybe. None of the other guys gave her gifts," Mark said.

"I'll do a background check on Bell," Tristan said. "And we should go back to ask the jeweler at Satya if he remembers Bell coming in."

"Are you going to be able to go in there today?" Stevenson asked with a raised brow.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you didn't go in Friday," Mark said flatly, not feeling the need to remind his partner.

"Don't worry about me. Today is a new day," Tristan said vaguely as he turned his attention to his computer screen to run a background check.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that afternoon, Rory was in the newsroom, trying to find contact information for Derek Crabtree. When the trial was over, he had moved to New Jersey. After that, he moved around the Trenton metro area every year or two, so Rory had several addresses to look into. It involved many calls to landlords to find forwarding addresses.

She preferred to interview people in person, but she wasn't sure how she'd explain a train ride to New Jersey. And she would _have_ to explain it—not only to James, but to Tristan as well. It would almost certainly involve a lie. Rory didn't feel like lying, one big lie of omission was enough. So a phone conversation would have to suffice.

She found four phone numbers for Derek Crabtree, and they didn't all work. She made her way down the list of numbers until she reached the last, most recent one. As she listened to the voicemail, she was glad that the number worked.

"Hi, this is Veronica More from the New York _Daily News_," she started. "I'd like to interview you about a robbery you were involved in six years ago. If you could call me back here at the newsroom to set up a time to talk, I'd appreciate it," she said before giving the newsroom phone number.

Rory hung up and looked at the desk next to her, where Marie was sitting. Rory was glad that her co-worker was back from vacation. It was nice to have someone to talk to about the case.

"I found a number that worked for Crabtree," she told Marie.

"Congratulations," she said. "So, are you writing a story about that old case?"

"Uh, maybe," Rory answered evasively. "I have a hunch that there's a story here. I just have to find it."

"Ah. So are you loaning your services out to another section this week?"

"Yes," Rory answered. "I e-mailed the other editors. I'll go to the highest bidder."

"I see," Marie said.

Rory typed a name into the database and read through a few articles. "Oh my God."

"What?"

"I think I just figured out why I was having trouble finding Jack Young's widow, Diane."

"Why?"

Rory turned her computer screen a little. "She got remarried a couple years after he was shot. So she has a new last name."

"Should there be a drumroll right now?"

Rory nodded. "Oh yeah. Her new last name is Aldred."

"As in Douglas Aldred?" Marie asked.

"That's right. He married his deceased partner's widow," Rory said. "I wonder if he had a thing for her when Jack was living."

"Jealousy is a motive to kill someone," Marie commented.

"No kidding. I _have_ to talk to her," Rory said.

Now that she had a new last name to work with, she refocused her search. Within an hour, she had a working phone number and an address. She also found a picture in the paper with Diane in it. The photo was to show recognition of a real estate firm's employees who had been with the company for ten years. It was a fairly recent photo, so Rory's bets were on Diane still being an employee. She went to the firm's website and found Diane's extension.

Rory switched over to her e-mail inbox when her computer alerted her that she'd received an incoming message. She checked it to find her next assignment. Somehow, she'd turned into a general staff reporter over the past week. She thought about how she'd probably be writing for the gossip column by the end of the week.

After she made a note of the assignment, she picked up her phone and dialed. A few rings later, a woman picked up.

"Charleston Realty. How may I direct your call?" she asked nicely.

"Hi, I'd like to speak with Diane Yo—I mean, Diane Aldred, please," Rory requested.

"One moment."

Rory waited a moment for her call to be transferred.

"Diane Aldred, how may I help you?"

"This is Veronica More, from the New York _Daily News_. I've been researching the robbery of Satya Jewelry that happened six years ago."

"Oh. The one where Jack was killed?" Diane asked slowly.

"Yes. I'd like to learn more about what happened. Would you be willing to sit down and talk about it with me?" Rory asked politely. "I'd understand if you don't want to."

"No, it's okay. I can talk about it," Diane said reassuringly. "I have tomorrow morning off. Would that work for you?"

"That would be perfect. And I can come to you, so you don't have to go out of your way."

"All right. I have an early morning appointment, but I should get back home around ten."

The woman gave Rory her address before they hung up. Rory felt like she'd been successful, so she turned her attention to her next article—the one that _would_ make it into the paper. However, she didn't get far when her editor approached her.

"Hey Gilmore," James said.

She turned in her chair to face him. "Hey what?"

"Here's the thing. I need an update about the Rivers case."

"Here's the thing," Rory countered. "Kyle is reporting on that case. Have him figure out what's going on."

"No one will talk to him."

"Oh my, it sounds like you're in a pickle."

"I need you to make a call and find out what's going on."

"No," she said firmly. "I need _you_ to stop using my personal relationship to your advantage here in the workplace. In fact," she said, raising her voice a little, so everyone around her could hear, "if anyone around here does anything to piss off the police, it is _your_ problem, not mine. You do not get to use me to make _your_ problem go away. It's _your_ problem."

She may have been getting a little edgy about people using her. Saturday at Freddy's had been the last straw.

James gave her a thoughtful look. She assumed he was going to get mad and tell her—more directly—to give 'her detective' a call. But he didn't. Instead, he asked, "Are you doing anything tonight?"

Rory frowned, a little confused. "No. Why?"

"Can you come out for drinks?"

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Tristan was at his desk, repeatedly clicking his pen. His mind wasn't on work when the ring of his cell phone startled him out of his reverie.

"DuGrey," he answered.

"Hey," Rory said. "You don't have any big plans tonight, do you?"

"On Monday night? No, not really," he answered. "Why?"

"Jimmy just asked me to go out for drinks with him tonight. He said he wants to introduce me to one of his friends."

"That doesn't sound right. I thought he knew about me."

"Oh, he definitely does," she said flatly. "It's someone in the biz."

"Ah, so it's a networking opportunity."

"Yeah, I guess. So, I said I'd go."

"Good," Tristan said. "Just don't let Jimmy pay for your drinks. He might expect you to put out."

Rory snorted. "I doubt that," she said. "Will you still come over tonight? I'm not planning on being out very late."

"Would you like me to?" he asked with a small smile.

"Yes."

"Wow, no hesitation."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

She paused before she asked, "Hey, isn't your lease up soon?"

Tristan glanced at his desk calendar. "Pretty soon. At the end of September."

"What are you going to do then?" she asked slowly. "Since you don't really like it there anymore."

"What do you mean?" he asked carefully. He hadn't given it much thought. He had other things to think about. And official living arrangements seemed like a minor detail in the grand scheme of things.

"I mean, it doesn't make sense for you to live where you don't like it, when you know where you _do_ like it."

"I guess it doesn't."

"Unless you _don't_ really like it—"

"No, no, I do," he said quickly. "I'm just not sure how much your grandparents would like it."

"We're adults. We can do whatever we want," Rory said. "Although, they probably _will_ want to know your credit score. But I think you could probably get out of the background check."

"No, I didn't mean your grandparents as your landlords. I meant your grandparents as your grandparents. They're a little old fashioned."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, they might see it as playing house."

Tristan glanced across the desks and saw Mark raise a brow at that last statement. Tristan turned around in his chair in an attempt to get some privacy.

"I don't want push you into doing something you don't want to do," Rory said. "You don't have to use my grandparents as an excuse."

"No, that's not it," he said. He looked up at the ceiling. This wasn't going very well. He watched Mark walk over to one of the interrogation rooms. He looked over at Tristan and gestured for him to wrap it up so they could question their next suspect.

"Hey," Tristan said into the phone. "Could we talk about this another time? I have to get back to work."

"Oh. Okay," Rory said, sounding disappointed.

"Really, we'll talk about this later—in person. Okay?"

"Sure," she said a little tonelessly.

He cringed.

"Are you still going to come over tonight?" she asked.

"Yes," he said quickly. "I am. I'll be there when you get home."

"All right. I'll see you later then."

"Yeah. Bye," Tristan said as he turned back toward his desk and hung up the phone. He closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled heavily. He shook his head at his poor communication skills and stood up.

He followed Mark into the interrogation room, where John Bell was already sitting. The detectives sat down across from him. The man was well dressed in a three piece suit and had an expensive haircut. He checked his watch pointedly, in a show that he had more important things to do.

"Mr. Bell, you date Erika Hart?" Mark asked.

"Yes."

"So you know her brother then?"

"Yes."

"What can you tell us about his ex-girlfriend, Courtney Rivers?"

John paused and then shrugged in nonchalance. "Like you said, she used to date Paul, but they broke up. And now, she's unfortunately dead."

"Do you know what she did for a living?" Tristan asked.

The man across from them paused. He smirked slightly before answering, "Waitress."

"Mm-hmm. It seems like you know the real answer to that question," Stevenson commented. "So why don't you just give it?"

"Fine. She was a dancer," John conceded.

Mark opened a file folder and laid a picture of Courtney in front of John. He pointed to the necklace. "Did you give her this?"

John glanced down and nodded. "It was a birthday gift."

"So the two of you were close?"

"In a matter of speaking."

"Did you also give the same necklace to Erika?"

The man nodded again. "I thought she might like one."

"What else did Courtney do besides dance?" Tristan asked.

John raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

"What else did she do for money?"

He paused. "I think she may have been offering sexual favors to men."

"You know," Tristan said, "Erika and her brother didn't even know what her real job was. Why do _you_ know so much?"

"I guess I'm just trustworthy."

"_Or_, you were one of the men paying for favors," Mark suggested.

"I never paid for anything," John said, a bit smugly.

"Were you having sex with her?" Tristan asked straightforwardly.

John Bell looked over at him and shrugged. "Yeah. So?"

"Since when?"

The man thought back. "A few months, I guess."

"While she was seeing Paul still?"

"Yes," John said. "That was before she started charging. She may have gotten the idea from me, though."

"How so?"

"She said she needed money and I offered to pay her. I guess she thought it was a good idea after all."

"Why do you think she never asked you to pay?" Tristan inquired.

"Maybe because I never told anyone she was using Erika's apartment."

"So, Erika wouldn't be okay with all this?" Mark asked.

"Probably not."

"Speaking of Erika's apartment," Tristan started, "it burned Thursday before last. Do you know anything about that?"

John shook his head. "No."

"Where were you between eleven and one that day?"

The man didn't answer immediately. When he did, he slowly said, "I was at work."

"Did you leave for lunch?" Stevenson asked.

"Yes. For an hour," John answered.

"Where did you go?" Tristan asked.

"I work down on Wall Street. I went to a restaurant in the area."

"Can you be more specific? This is your alibi."

John shrugged. "It was some sandwich shop."

Tristan wasn't convinced. "Did you like to tie Courtney up when the two of you hooked up?"

The man across the table smirked. He shrugged and answered, "Surely _you_ could see the thrill in that kind of thing."

"How so?"

"You carry around handcuffs. Are you going to try to tell me you've never used them for recreational purposes?"

Tristan closed his eyes and shook his head. "You're free to go for now. We'll be in touch."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that evening, Rory walked into a crowded restaurant with her editor. James looked around at the tables by the bar and walked over to one that was occupied by a man. He had brown hair that was starting to go grey and was reading a newspaper as he waited. He glanced up and smiled as the two approached.

"Rory," James said, "I'd like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Calvin Hayes."

"Hello," she said, smiling and shaking Calvin's hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Rory. I've heard a lot about you," Calvin said.

"Oh really?" she asked, turning her eyes to her editor as they sat down at the table.

James nodded. "That's right. I shared some of your articles with him after I told him about you."

"When did you tell him about me?" she inquired.

"Last week. I looked through my contacts to ask if anyone was in need of an editor."

"Oh, are you leaving the _Daily News_?" Rory asked with a frown.

"No. I was asking around for _you_," James answered. "And Calvin here took the bait. He's the editor-in-chief at the _Spartanburg Herald-Journal_."

"Spartanburg?" Rory asked.

Calvin nodded. "In South Carolina."

"Oh," she said, this time with knit brows. "So you need an editor?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yes. For the News section. It's a big responsibility."

James elbowed her. "Just what you wanted."

"That _is_ what I said, isn't it?" Rory admitted.

Calvin continued, "I've noticed that you've taken command of your own beat."

"That's true," James agreed. "You should have seen her last week. She was calling the shots. It was like she didn't need me at all."

"I wouldn't say that," Rory said, a little sheepishly.

"Don't be shy now. I already talked you up."

"It's true, he has," Calvin agreed. "That's why I'm here. I wanted to meet you in person, to see if you're the right fit for my paper."

"Ah," Rory said, not knowing what else to say. She glanced at her editor with raised eyebrows and a tight smile.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory walked into her apartment later that night. It was dark, and she didn't bother with turning on a light in the living room, as it was empty. She went straight to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face, and then went across the hall to her bedroom.

She stopped at the door and looked in. Tristan was in the bed already. A book was lying on his chest. It appeared to have rested there when he fell asleep. He was still wearing his glasses and the lamp was on. She stood at the door and watched him sleep for a moment before going in and changing into her nightgown.

She crawled into bed and carefully took his glasses off, placing them on the nightstand. She tried the book next, but he pushed her wrist away with his heavy hand.

"That's mine," he mumbled with his eyes still closed. "Read one of your own."

"You're asleep," she whispered. "You can read it tomorrow." She pulled the book away.

"You just get home?" he asked drowsily.

"Yes."

"I fell asleep already?"

"Yes. You're getting old. You can't stay up as late anymore."

"I'm not old," he argued. "How were the drinks?"

She faltered for a beat before answering, "Fine. They were fine." The memory of the evening caused a lump to rise in her throat. She swallowed hard before adding, "Go back to sleep, okay?"

Tristan nodded and Rory reached over to turn the lamp off. But before she got comfortable on her side of the bed, she kissed him on his cheek. And then again. She slowly traced his jawline with her finger and then kissed his lips slowly. She continued to kiss him, and he responded keenly. He pulled her closer and she held onto him tightly.

She wondered if she had more to drink than she'd realized. Tristan—though he'd been asleep just minutes before—was gradually becoming more lucid and was rising to the occasion. His hands were languidly roaming over her body, under her nightgown. Rory wasn't sure what had come over her. An innocent and unassuming good night kiss was seguing to the point of no return. And her solitary desire was to close any existing gap between them so she could be as close to him as possible.


	6. Be the Ball

**Title**: Ain't Life Grand

**Chapter 6**: Be the Ball

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: Thanks for the reviews! Yes, this is the penultimate chapter.

_To decide is to walk facing forward with nary a crick in your neck from looking back at the crossroads. –Betsy Cañas Garmon _

**Be the Ball**

On Tuesday morning, Tristan and Mark were riding an elevator to the thirty-second floor of a high rise building on Wall Street. When the elevator stopped at their destination, the detectives walked off and showed their badges to a receptionist. They then proceeded down the hall to one of the offices.

John Bell was sitting behind a large desk, with his back to an impressive view of the city. He glanced up briefly before looking back down at the work in front of him. "Detectives," he greeted in disinterest.

"We have your phone records," Mark informed him. "And we'd like to know what you talked to Courtney about when you were calling her around the time that she was killed."  
>John did not respond.<p>

Mark continued, "The GPS in your phone gave us a nice map of where you were Thursday. You couldn't remember where you went to lunch that day. Do you remember now?"

As Mark finished his sentence, Tristan put the map on the desk so their suspect could see.

"It looks like you were on Sixth Avenue _right_ when the fire took place," Tristan said. "So what happened? Erika was getting back from vacation the next day. Did you decide it was a convenient time to get rid of evidence indicating that you were messing around?"

John sat his pen down and crossed his arms. "I didn't set that fire," he said.

"Then what were you doing there?"

"I was there to meet Courtney."

"Ah, for some afternoon delight," Stevenson said, it wasn't a question.

John shrugged. "Sure."

"You were meeting at Erika's apartment, weren't you?"

The man hesitated a second. "Yes."

Tristan sat down in a chair and made himself comfortable. "You had one of the keys to Erika's apartment, didn't you?"

"Yes. But I gave it back to her a few weeks ago, since she moved out."

"Yeah, that's what she told us," Mark said. "Except here's the problem with that. She moved in with you and didn't need the key to her old apartment when she was on vacation. Which means _you_ were the one with the keys."

"Possession is nine tenths of the law," Tristan added.

"I'm not the one who let Courtney in Thursday. I used to a few months ago, but she didn't need me for that after a while."

"Why not?"

"She had a key," John said.

"The one Paul lost?" Mark asked.

"Mm-hmm, she stole it from him when they were still dating."

"Okay," Tristan said. "But there's still a problem with that. There wasn't a key found in the apartment after the fire. Which means _you_ were still the only one who could get in."

John didn't say anything for a minute. He shook his head. "I was in the area because we were supposed to meet up around noon," he said. "But I never even went into the building. I got to Sixth Avenue and saw all the police and firefighters. So I called Courtney to tell her I was going back to work."

"The building was on fire," Mark said. "You weren't concerned when she didn't answer?"

John shrugged. "There were people everywhere. I thought she might be out on the street and couldn't hear her phone."

"You didn't want to find out if she was okay?" Mark asked.

"There were plenty of rescue personnel there."

"What a gentleman," Tristan said dryly.

"I didn't kill her," John said.

"It's getting harder and harder to believe that," Tristan said.

"Fine. Do you have an arrest warrant? I want to call my lawyer if you do."

"Not yet," Tristan said. "But don't leave town. I just have to call a judge."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Rory got out of a cab in Lower Manhattan. She looked at the busy street and at all the people walking by. She looked up at the tall buildings around her. From this street, she could see the Empire State Building.

She turned to enter an apartment building and took the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor. She was there to interview Diane Young—now Aldred—in her home. Rory walked down the hall until she found the address she was given. She knocked and a minute later, a tall woman answered with a friendly smile. Rory introduced herself and Diane moved so she could enter the apartment.

"Hi, come on in," Diane said. "We can sit in the dining room, I just made some coffee."

"Okay, great," Rory said as she took a seat at the table and took out her notepad and pen. "You have a nice home," she commented as she looked around the tidy apartment.

"Thanks," Diane said as she came to the table with two cups of coffee. She handed one to Rory and sat down across from her. "So you're looking into the robbery where Jack was killed?"

"Yes," Rory answered. "It came to my attention recently, since the person who was convicted of shooting him escaped prison."

"That's terrible," Diane said bitterly, shaking her head. "He belongs in jail. He shot someone—a police officer. He should be in prison for the rest of his life."

"Mm-hmm," Rory agreed. "I just wanted to find out what happened. If I write an article, it might shed some light on the case again. Maybe someone has seen Jeff Levin," she explained.

"All right. I appreciate that."

"So how long were you married to Jack before he died?" she asked.

"Four years. We were together a couple years before we got married."

"And was he a cop the whole time you knew him?"

"Yes," Diane answered. "He actually tried to give me a ticket for jaywalking—that's how we met. I was just crossing the street one day. He thought I was pretty and wanted a reason to talk to me," she said with a small smile as she reminisced.

"So you met when he was working, you saw him in action?" Rory asked.

Diane laughed a little. "Oh no, he was off duty and was wearing street clothes. Which made it confusing. That's why he had to admit that he just wanted to talk to me."

Rory smiled at the story. "That's cute."

"He did love being a cop though," Diane went on. "He liked responding to calls, being the first one there."

"But you must have worried a lot," Rory said sympathetically. "Loving someone who purposely runs into danger is stressful."

Diane looked at Rory with knit brows. She nodded somberly. "Every day, there was that worry in the back of my mind. I mean, I didn't let it get in the way of living my life. But you dread that phone call. The one where someone says something terrible happened."

"I understand," Rory said. She said it quietly, but meant it.

Diane shook her head as she stared down at her coffee. "No offense, but people always say they understand. And I know they mean well, but they can't know what it's like."

"No. I do. I understand," Rory said gently.

Diane looked at her. Perhaps it was Rory's sincere tone, or the honest look in her eyes, but Diane didn't question it. She nodded. "Okay."

"It's hard," Rory said with a nod. "So, you're married to Jack's partner now, aren't you?"

"Yes. Doug," Diane answered. "He was so devastated about what happened. He quit the force afterward."

"Partners are pretty close. It must have been as hard for him as it was for you, when Jack died."

"It was. Jack was like a brother to him. Doug felt horrible about the whole thing. He kept apologizing, he felt responsible. I had to remind him that it wasn't his fault. We really leaned on each other to get through it."

"I see," Rory said. She was about to ask a question when the phone rang.

"Oh, I'm expecting a call, I need to get that."

Rory nodded and Diane got up to answer. She took the phone to the next room, though Rory could still hear.

"This is she," Diane said. "Yes, there's a problem with our checking account. We don't know where those charges are going . . . We don't know anyone in New Jersey."

From her place in the kitchen, Rory turned a page in her notebook and took notes as she eavesdropped.

"Well, neither one of us has wired any money," Diane continued. "Maybe someone got a hold of our account number. . . Okay, thanks for looking into it. Bye."

Rory quickly turned back to her original notebook page as Diane came back into the kitchen. She hung up the phone and walked back over.

"Sorry about that," she said as she sat down at the table.

"That's all right. So, Doug is a private investigator now?" Rory asked.

"Yes," Diane answered. "He has an office here in Manhattan."

"Did you guys used to hang out when Jack was still living?" Rory asked cautiously.

"Sometimes, yes. We occasionally got together at cop bars after work or on the weekends."

"Did you know Doug very well before Jack died?"

"We were good acquaintances. But we became better friends after Jack died. Why?"

"I was just wondering how well you knew Doug when you were married to Jack."

"Oh," Diane said with a frown. "Not too well. Jack, of course, talked about him at home. And he probably talked about me at work sometimes."

"I see," Rory said. She didn't press the issue. "I'm trying to talk to everyone who was involved in the robbery and subsequent shooting. Do you think Doug would be willing to sit down with me?"

"Maybe," Diane answered. "He kind of put it all behind him though. He doesn't talk about it much. But you could still ask him," she said as she reached across the table to grab a sticky note and a pen. "Here's his work number."

"Thanks," Rory said before she wrapped up the interview.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A couple hours later, Rory was sitting at a table with Tristan. They were at a diner and had just given the waitress their lunch orders. Rory silently glanced sideways out the window. Across the table, Tristan wasn't much chattier.

A few minutes ticked by before he asked, "What time did you get in last night?"

She looked over at him and answered, "Around nine thirty."

"And I was already asleep?"

"Yes."

Tristan thought a minute more. "When you came to bed, did we have—"

"Yes," Rory answered before he finished his question.

He nodded. "I thought that was too real to be a dream," he mused. "So what did you guys talk about over drinks?"

She felt her heart quicken nervously. "Oh, uh, just journalism stuff—perceptions of media and the direction the news is going in the twenty-first century. Among other things."

"That sounds like one of your grad school classes. I bet you wish you'd had one of your papers to pull out and reference," he commented. He raised a brow knowingly.

Rory just barely smiled and agreed, "Yeah. That sounds like me." She didn't say any more about the previous night. She couldn't will herself to mention anything else about it.

She turned to look out the window again. She watched cars drive down the street and people quickly walk by on the sidewalk. Everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere. She wondered what problems they had. Surely there was someone in this city who had more on their mind than her. She turned back to Tristan, but he didn't notice. He was staring intently at her hands, which were laced together and resting on the table.

"Do you ever wish you were the boss?" she asked him.

He looked up quickly, a little surprised that she'd suddenly addressed him. He thought about the question a moment before he shook his head. "Not really."

"Never?"

He shrugged. "No. The boss has to stay in the office all day. I like a little freedom."

She raised a brow. "A little?"

He grinned and shrugged again. "Okay. A lot."

"Still, you'd get to tell people what to do."

"Yeah, but I'd also be responsible for all of them. Shit rolls downhill. If I get in trouble with the captain, it's probably because he got in trouble with _his_ boss first."

"That's true," Rory conceded. She made a mental note to add both of his points to the con side of her list.

"That stuff with Kyle still getting you down?" Tristan inquired.

"Oh, uh. Yeah, kind of—in a matter of speaking," she said. Which was true. Complaining had gotten her the job offer—odd as it was.

She decided to change the subject after their food arrived. "How is the Rivers case going?"

"Oh, it's going," he answered vaguely as he poured some ketchup next to his fries. "Erika Hart's boyfriend was at the scene of the crime around the time it happened."

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm, according to his cell phone. It places him right front of the building on Sixth Avenue when the fire took place."

"Hmm," Rory mused. "Why was he there?"

"To do what all the other guys were doing with her."

"He was sleeping with her?"

"Yeah," Tristan answered. "He's pretty sleazy, if you ask me."

"So did you arrest him?"

Tristan shook his head. "Not yet. We're looking through security cameras first. We want to make sure he went into the building before we try to pin the murder on him."

Rory frowned in thought. Freddy wouldn't have given up the name of the actual murderer yet, not before Jeff's name was cleared. Now she felt the guilty over leading Tristan astray. If the guy didn't do anything, Tristan was just wasting his time.

She tried to provide another theory, "Maybe Erika found out what he was doing and decided to do something extreme. I mean, he was using her apartment to cheat on her. And she was the only one who could get in."

"That's true. Except that she was on vacation, so she alibis out."

"But she could have gotten someone else to do her dirty work for her. Maybe she gave someone her key if she knew when Courtney was planning on being there. A woman scorned might go to drastic measures to get revenge."

"I'll make a note of that," Tristan said.

Rory paused before taking a bite of her cheeseburger. "Really?" she asked. "You think that could be what happened?"

"Oh, I'm not sure. Maybe. I'm making the mental note for my own safety. You clearly have some ideas ready if I ever wrong you." He ate a couple fries and shook his head. "Consider me warned."

She blushed a little and bit her lip. That wasn't quite her aim.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

After lunch, Rory returned to the newsroom. When she sat down at her desk, she saw the light on her phone blinking, indicating that she had a voicemail. She picked up the phone and entered her information to listen to her message. The automated woman on the voicemail told her that the message was left at nine thirty that morning.

When it played, there was a pause before she heard a deep, muffled, male voice. "Stop sniffing around, Veronica," the voice said.

Rory knit her brows and listened to it again. She didn't delete the message, but hung up the phone after the second listen.

"Huh," she said.

She glanced around the newsroom, to make sure no one could hear her. The desk next to hers was empty, as Marie was out. She took her cell phone out of her messenger bag and scrolled down the contacts. She dialed and waited.

"Hello? Rory?" Freddy answered.

"Yeah. You didn't happen to leave me an ominous voicemail this morning, did you?"

Freddy paused. "Uh, no."

"I didn't think so. It didn't sound like you. Plus, you never called me Veronica."

"So someone left you a cryptic message?" he asked.

"Yes. And it was a man. It was vaguely threatening."

"Well, it wasn't me. You told me not to call you anymore."

"True."

"Who do you think it was?"

Rory shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't talked with Derek Crabtree yet, but I did leave a message for him with my work number. And I interviewed Jack Young's widow this morning."

"I guess you can rule her out."

"Mm-hmm," she muttered as she thought about it. "Someone doesn't like that I'm looking into the robbery. I don't want to sound like I'm on the _X-Files_, but the truth is out there."

"Then someone must be worried that you're going to find it," Freddy said eagerly.

"That's my guess," Rory said. "I have to go. I need to report this."

"Report it to who?" he asked quickly.

"Calm down," she said. "I'm just going to call the non-emergency number for the police. They won't even be able to do much about it." She also rationalized that Tristan wouldn't be able to do anything about it, either. Telling him would only make him worry. "I just want it reported."

"Oh. Okay."

"I'll talk to you when I know more," she said before hanging up.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory was home alone later that evening. Tristan had called her earlier, to let her know that he'd be working late. So she was sitting on the couch, light from a single lamp shined down on two pro-con lists that were on her lap. One was labeled New York, and the other, South Carolina.

Her laptop was open on the coffee table. She rubbed her face and shook her head. Not knowing what to do, she put the notebook on the coffee table and picked up her cell phone. She dialed and waited for the comforting voice of her mother.

"Hello?" Lorelai answered a few seconds later.

"Mom?" Rory said in a meek voice.

"Yeah, what is it? Is something wrong?" Lorelai asked, concerned with her daughter's tone.

"I need a distraction."

"From what?"

"Life."

"Uh-oh. Are you and Tristan still on the outs?"

"No," Rory answered. "We're fine."

"Good. We'll need him for sex appeal when we get our reality TV show."

Rory closed her eyes and shook her head. "That sentence was wrong on so many levels."

"What?"

"For one thing, no one wants to watch our lives," she said, addressing the less disturbing part of her mother's statement.

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Because we aren't interesting enough."

"Hey, speak for yourself. _I'm_ very interesting. Besides, what's the difference between us and the Kardashian's?"

"We have actual jobs?"

"Exactly. See? We're already ahead."

Rory shook her head again. "Let it go. We aren't getting our own show."

"We'll come back to this later. What do you need a distraction from?" Lorelai asked.

Rory sighed. "Last night I was offered an editor job."

"Hey, that's great," Lorelai complimented. "Congratulations."

"It's in South Carolina."

"Oh. So are you going to take it?"

"I have to," Rory answered a little tonelessly.

"You do? Why?"

"Because. I have an advanced degree now—which I pointed out last week when I indicated I should get more responsibility at work. And Jimmy delivered. He went to the trouble of asking around and finding someone who needed an editor."

"Oh. And that means you have to take the job?"

"It isn't just that. It's the _Spartanburg Herald-Journal_."

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

Rory nodded. "Do you know who owns the _Herald-Journal_?"

"Should I?" Lorelai asked.

"The New York Times Company."

"Ah. And _that_ means you have to take a job there?" Lorelai asked again.

"Well, it could mean getting my foot in the door at _The_ _Times_. And maybe I could work my way back to New York City one day. And it's _The_ _Times_," Rory stressed. "It's the Holy Grail for journalists."

"Okay, but is it _your_ Holy Grail?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, when you were a kid, I don't really remember you telling everyone that you want to go work for _The New York Times _when you grew up."

"So you don't think I should take it?"

"That isn't what I'm saying," Lorelai said. "I'm just saying that you don't _have_ to take the job if you don't want to."

"But it _is_ career advancement," Rory objected. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do in life? Go as far as you can in your career? Keep climbing the latter until you're at the top? Look at you. You didn't stop until you opened your own inn. Grandpa started his own company. And Luke owns the diner. You've all set the bar really high. I can't stop until I start my own paper," she rambled.

"Calm down. You don't have to start your own paper," Lorelai said. "Don't worry about us. You have your own goals."

"Yeah, foreign correspondent—everyone knows. But what have I done to obtain it lately?" Rory asked. She went on to answer her own question, "Nothing. I haven't done anything to become a foreign correspondent. I've let myself get comfortable in New York at the _Daily News_."

"There isn't anything wrong with that, if you like it," Lorelai reasoned.

"It was just supposed to be temporary, though. Not forever. It was just a stepping stone to—bigger, more important things," Rory said, remembering how Tristan had phrased it the previous Friday night.

She shook her head. "But maybe it's time to let the dream go," she said, sounding defeated. "In which case, I should be working towards being an editor—and take the job."

"Okay, so take it."

"Really?"

"Sure. Goals can change. No one will think less of you for changing yours."

"So that's it then. I should take the job and start on my new path," she said, staring at the other side of the room.

"Not necessarily," Lorelai said. "You don't have to let your correspondent dream go if it's still what you want to do."

"Well how am I going to get there?" Rory asked helplessly. "I don't think investigating _crime_ is helping me much. I mean, I'm not exactly making Forbes's list of 100 Most Powerful Women."

"On the other hand, you're desensitized to dead bodies."

"Sure," Rory said flatly.

"And everyone's path is different. There isn't one path that leads to certain journalism jobs, is there?"

"No," she admitted. "But in that case, wouldn't editor still look better on my resume? Even if it's at a small paper?"

"Maybe," Lorelai conceded.

"Plus, I don't like it when someone needs to smooth things over with the police at the _Daily New_s. They depend on _me_ for that. Maybe it's time to move on."

Lorelai asked slowly, "Speaking of the police, does Tristan have an opinion about what you should do?"

"No."

"None?"

Rory shrugged. "I haven't told him about it."

"Why not?"

"I don't know," she answered, starting to feel a lump rise in her throat. "We had lunch today and I just couldn't do it."

"Are you afraid he'll try to make you stay?"

"No. Yes. I don't know," she said, shaking her head. Now tears were swimming at the bottom of her eyes. She swallowed hard and blinked fast.

"Are you afraid of what will happen with him if you _do_ move?" Lorelai asked.

Rory didn't respond right away. Finally, she answered, "Yes. When I was looking through old articles from the _Daily News_, I came across one that said people from Manhattan don't like to commute farther than Brooklyn for a relationship."

"You guys aren't really from New York though."

"That seems like a technicality," Rory said. "And besides, some people don't like long distance relationships. It's like moving . . . backwards."

"Some people?" Lorelai asked.

"Yes."

"The opposite of the direction _you_ want things to do—as you said last week."

Rory didn't respond.

Lorelai went on slowly, "You know, you don't _have_ to try a long distance relationship."

"I know. We could break up instead," Rory said dejectedly.

"That isn't where I was going."

"Where were you going then?"

"You could have your cake and eat it too."

"Meaning?"

"Well, if you decide to take the job, you could ask Tristan to go _with_ you."

"No I couldn't," Rory said in a small voice.

"Why not?"

"Because. Then _he'd_ have to decide to stay or go. And he could say no."

"Or he could say yes."

Rory shook her head. "He likes New York City. It's why he moved here."

"He likes you too, though."

Rory went on, "He likes his job here."

"I bet there are jobs in South Carolina."

She shook her head and glanced at the Internet page displayed on her laptop screen. "Not like here. Spartanburg's police force is really small."

"Then he'd probably get more to do," Lorelai reasoned.

Rory shook her head again. "That isn't what he wants. He likes what he does now. He likes driving his car and strutting around in a suit. People can't tell until they pass him and see his gun that he's a cop. And even then, they just whisper to each other and wonder if he's a detective. I know he likes it," she insisted. "He doesn't even know what he'd do instead."

"What about the FBI? That could be cool," Lorelai suggested.

"He doesn't really like the feds," Rory said as she clicked on a different tab. "Plus, they have to train for twenty-one weeks and then don't get a choice about where they go."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure there are plenty of other things."

"Nothing that he'd _want_ to do. Trust me," she said matter-of-factly, "he has several reasons to like his job. Take the other week for example. I think he was auditioning for a role in the next sequel of the _Fast and the Furious_."

She didn't wait to hear what her mother had to say before she continued, "He doesn't even want to move in with me _here_. Why would he want to move all the way to South Carolina with me?" Having unsuccessfully blinked the tears back, they were silently falling down her cheeks.

"He doesn't want to move in? I thought he was practically moved in already."

"Well he doesn't want to officially. I asked him—basically."

"What do you mean 'basically'?"

"I mean, I asked what he's going to do when his lease is up, since he doesn't stay at his apartment, but _does_ stay at mine. He just said he didn't think Grandma and Grandpa would like us 'playing house'. Whatever that means."

"So he didn't _really_ say no?"

"Not exactly. But he didn't say yes either," Rory said. She muttered, "Stupid lawyers and their grey area." She sighed. "Just tell me what to do. Please. Mother knows best. I'll do whatever you think is best. We'll see how the cookie crumbles after that."

"I'm not going to decide for you," Lorelai said. "And you know that. So I'll just leave you with some motherly advice. Maybe it'll make you feel better about whatever you decide."

"Great. Something to confuse me more."

"Just listen. You can put this wherever you think it belongs on your pro-con lists," Lorelai said. "Sometimes goals in life change. Most people's do and it's okay," she said. "Second, not all life experiences belong on a resume, but that doesn't make them any less important, or . . . worth experiencing."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The next morning, Rory walked to her desk after the staff meeting. She sat down and got to work on her article for the next issue of the paper. She was tired of writing frivolous pieces. She wanted to report the news. The news was important. If she took the editor job, she'd be all kinds of important. The news would go through her before it was published.

She was proof reading what she'd written when Kyle approached her. "Hey Rory, this was left for you at the front desk."

"Thanks," she said as she took an envelope he handed over. When she noticed him hovering, she looked up at him, "Are you interested in what's in here?" she asked, indicating the envelope.

"Oh, uh, no," he said a little timidly.

She sighed. "The police have a suspect for Courtney Rivers' murder. Erika Hart's boyfriend was in the area and had a key to her apartment."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, thanks. I'll make sure Jimmy puts your name in the by-line."

"Don't worry about it," she said as Kyle walked away.

She looked down at the envelope, which was addressed to Veronica More. She opened it and pulled out a sheet of paper that was folded into thirds. She opened the paper and saw a short message, typed in large font. It warned, 'If you know what's good for you, you'll mind your own business'.

Rory wondered why she was getting another message before she'd even talked to anyone else about the robbery. And it was definitely about the robbery. Her other article wasn't likely to make anyone upset. Plus, her non-crime articles had her real name in the by-line. She was hitting a nerve with someone.

She wondered if she would be able to figure out who it was. If she took the editor job, none of this would matter. She could just leave these problems here in New York. The thought wasn't an unpleasant one.

Rory sighed and stood up. She walked to the lobby and stopped at the reception desk.

"Do you know who sent me this?" she asked the executive assistant. She held up the envelope for the woman behind the desk to see.

The woman shook her head. "A messenger dropped it off during the staff meeting."

"I see. Thanks," Rory said before heading back to her desk.

She sat down and drummed her fingers on her desk for a moment, thinking about what she should do. She picked her phone up to report the message first. Since it was a physical threat, they were sending someone down.

When Rory hung up, she knew what she had to do. She had to tell Tristan or he'd probably find out some other way—then she'd have to explain. Preemptive action was a better idea. She took her cell phone out and hit the speed dial.

"DuGrey," he answered after a couple rings.

"I have to tell you something, but I don't want you to worry."

"I'm listening, but not making any promises."

"Someone sent me a slightly threatening message today," she explained.

"What do you mean by 'slightly threatening'?"

"It says that I should mind my own business. If I know what's good for me," she answered, reading from the paper.

There was a pause as Tristan thought about it. "I'll be there in about ten minutes."

"No, don't. You're working, and I already reported it. You don't need to come. This kind of thing isn't your job."

"You're my job."

"No I'm not. Stay at work. Someone else will take care of it. They'll just feel like you're looking over their shoulder if you come, too."

"That's because I'll _be_ looking over their shoulder."

"No you won't," she insisted. "Because you're staying at work. I just wanted to let you know so you don't find out when you're reading random police reports."

"I don't really do that."

"Well, on the off chance that you did, I wanted you to find out from me instead."

Tristan sighed on the other end. "I'd really rather come down there myself."

"It's fine. Whoever sent me this note doesn't even know anything about me. The envelope was addressed to my pseudonym. If it said Rory, I'd be worried," she said. And she was honest about that one, since she knew from experience.

"What are you doing, that someone wants you to keep your nose out of their business?"

Rory hesitated. She wasn't sure how much Tristan knew about the robbery case. "You know what I've been looking into. You were the one to get me the police reports."

"You're still investigating that?" he asked. "Is that guy still calling you—pretending to be a cop?"

"No," she answered truthfully. "I told him to stop."

"How do you know he isn't still messing with you?"

"Because it didn't sound like him."

"What do you mean it didn't sound like him? It was a note."

She cringed. He had her there. "This is the second message," she admitted. "The first one was a voicemail yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Tristan asked angrily. "You didn't say anything about that."

"I know. I didn't want you to worry."

"Let _me_ decide what I worry about."

"Reporters get threatened for snooping around all the time. It's not a big deal."

"It is too a big deal," he countered.

"No it isn't. It just means someone doesn't want the truth to come out," she said. "Every good reporter gets threatened every now and then. And I'm an investigative journalist. It means I'm doing my job right."

"I told you to be careful," he said impatiently.

"Yeah, well, you know what? I can think of a couple specific times where you haven't thought about _your_ safety. I worry about you every day, so now you know what it's like," she said, and hoped she didn't sound _too_ harsh.

"That was a low blow."

"It doesn't make it less true."

"Doesn't that mean I get to drop everything to go make sure you're okay," he muttered.

"I'm fine," she insisted. "And I dropped everything to go _yell_ at you. Now, I have to get back to work, and so do you. Because you're staying at work, right?"

"I guess so," he sulked unhappily.

"Good. I will see you later," she said before hanging up.

She picked up her desk phone and dialed a number that worked for her the last time she'd tried it. It was Derek Crabtree's number.

"Hello?" a man answered.

"Hi, this is Veronica More from the _Daily News_. I left a message for you the other day."

"Oh, uh, right. Sorry I didn't get back to you."

"That's okay," she said reassuringly. "I'd like to talk to you about the robbery you were involved in six years ago. Is now a good time?"

"Uh, I guess so," Derek said slowly.

"Great. I was wondering if you knew that Jeff Levin escaped from prison a few months ago."

"Oh, did he?" Derek said, in a voice that did not convince Rory. "No, I didn't know that."

"I watched the surveillance video where you two cased the jewelry store. Can you tell me what happened when you went back to rob it? I would go to prison to ask Jeff, but he isn't there."

"Right. I guess he's on the run."

"Presumably," Rory said, all business like. "So, what happened? You're one of only three people who know."

"Well, uh, we were in the store, taking jewelry from the cases, when two cops showed up," Derek explained.

"You and Jeff didn't have any weapons, did you?" Rory asked. She had the police reports with the statements in front of her, as well as the court transcripts.

"No."

"So what happened when the police showed up?"

"Well, Jeff tried to run away, but one of those cops got in his way—"

"Jack Young?" Rory prodded, wondering if she could trip him up.

"Uh, yeah, that's his name. So Jeff struggled with him and got his gun. The he shot the other guy."

"You mean he shot _Jack_," she said clearly.

"Yeah."

"But the gun used to kill him was his partner's, Douglas Aldred," she countered.

"Oh, right. Yeah, that's right. I got them mixed up—it's been a few years. Jeff shot Young with Aldred's gun."

"Jeff claimed that he ran away before any shots were fired."

"He probably didn't want to go to jail."

Rory raised a brow and made a sarcastic expression. "Probably." She thought about the phone call Diane Aldred answered during their interview. Surely it was the bank that had called her. "Have you talked to Officer Aldred since the trial?"

"Oh, um, is he still a cop?"

"No. You're right. He quit the force. You knew that?"

"I heard it somewhere."

"Sure. So, have you contacted each other?"  
>"Uh, no. Why?"<p>

"I was just wondering. Thanks for talking with me," Rory said.

"Hey, is this going in the paper?" Derek asked quickly.

"I'm not sure," she answered. "But everything you said _is_ on the record."

"Oh, it is?"

"Yes. But don't worry, you haven't changed your story," she said, though not completely truthful.

"Right, okay," he said before they ended the call.

Rory didn't hang up. She pressed the receiver and dialed another number. It was the number Diane Aldred provided her.

"Aldred," a man answered.

"Hi, this is Veronica More, from the _Daily News_. I was wondering if you would talk to me about the robbery where your partner was shot and killed."

"I don't like to talk about that," Douglas said curtly.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Neither does my wife," he went on. "So leave her alone."

"Okay," Rory said slowly. "I didn't mean to upset anyone."

"Then just let it alone. It's in the past. Leave it there," he said. "It was a terrible thing that guy did. We're all moving on."

"I'm sorry for bringing it up again," Rory apologized. "And I'm sorry for bothering you."

They ended the call and she hung up. She picked up her cell phone to make one more call.

"Hello?" Freddy answered.

"It's Rory. Are you and—your brother—at home?" she asked, glancing around the newsroom as she said it.

"Yeah. Why?"

"I need to talk to him," she said quietly. "I got another threat today. After the police come to file the report, I'll leave for your place."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

As promised, Rory was at Freddy's apartment within two hours. She was sitting at the small kitchen table across from the two brothers. She had her messenger bag unloaded all over the table. She wanted to carefully compare the witness accounts.

"So you've been getting threatened?" Jeff asked her.

"Yes," she answered as she took out her pen and a blank sheet of notebook paper.

"Sorry—for him," Jeff said, glaring at his brother. "This is entirely his fault."

"That's not true," Freddy protested. "You were the one to escape prison."

Rory rolled her eyes. "That's enough. Arguing won't help anything. And I already reported the threat."

"Have you been able to figure out what happened?" Freddy asked.

"Not really. I got a hold of Derek Crabtree. He got a couple details mixed up."

"So you think he did it?" Jeff asked slowly.

"I don't know. He wasn't very sure of himself. And Aldred didn't want to talk at all. But sometimes people don't like to talk to reporters—especially cops. Even if he isn't one anymore."

"So maybe _he_ did it," Freddy said.

"Well," Rory said, a bit dryly, "_one_ of them obviously did. I just don't know how I'm going to prove it." She turned to Jeff. "I need you to tell me what happened again. And be as detailed as possible."

"Okay," Jeff said before he went through the night of the robbery again.

When he was finished, she went back to her notes from her discussion with Crabtree. "You're sure Young was close to you when you ran out of the store?"

Jeff nodded. "Positive. He tried to stop me, but I slipped out."

"Then you couldn't have struggled with Aldred, if he was on the other side of the store."

"Right," he said, brightening at the thought.

"Where was Derek when you ran out?"

"On the opposite side of a jewelry case, not in a good place to get away."

"How close was he to Aldred?"

Jeff shrugged. "I'm not sure."

Rory thought about it and wondered if Derek Crabtree was the one to struggle with Aldred. She shook her head. That still didn't make sense. She sighed and started gathering her things. "I'll have to think about this. Maybe I'll be able to persuade Aldred to talk."

Freddy picked up one of the notebooks on the table. "What's this?" he asked as he read down the columns.

"Oh," Rory said, glancing at the notebook. "It's a pro-con list."

"For what?"

She sighed again before answering, "I got an offer for an editor job. It's in South Carolina."

"When do you have to leave?" Freddy asked, concerned.

"I don't know if I'm taking it."

He pointed to one of the pros on the New York list. "Your boyfriend won't go with you?" he asked. "Is that why you might not take it?"

She shook her head. "No. I haven't told him about it."

"Why not?"

"Because. I haven't decided what to do yet."

"So?"

She silently snatched her notebook away from him and put it in her messenger bag. "So. It's complicated."

"Oh, I see," Freddy said.

"You do not," she said as she continued to put her things in her bag.

"Yes I do. I've seen an episode of _How I Met Your Mother_ just like this. It's the classic choice between love and career."

"It is not," she muttered. "It's about the _direction_ of my career. And I don't make decisions about my career based on the guy I'm seeing. It's not how I roll."

"So you're going to find out what happens with him after you decide?"

Rory shrugged and glowered.

Freddy watched her for a moment. "Ah. So he's just some guy then."

"I didn't say that."

"Why don't you mind your own business?" Jeff asked his brother.

"I second that," Rory agreed.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A couple hours later, Tristan was at the precinct, next to his partner's desk. They were dealing with an irate Erika Hart. Mark had just broken the news to her about her less-than-faithful boyfriend and she was not taking it well.

"I can't _believe_ him!" the blonde woman said loudly. "In _my_ apartment?"

Mark didn't say anything, he just glanced at Tristan grimly. Tristan didn't say anything either.

"That whore!" Erika said angrily.

As Mark tried to calm her down, Tristan noticed a young guy a few feet away, who looked like he was trying to catch his attention.

"Can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah. I live below her," the young man said, nodding at Erika—who had not noticed another person was watching her.

"Okay. Do you know something about what was going on up there?"

"Yeah."

Tristan grabbed a notebook from his desk and tilted his head in the direction of an interrogation room. "Let's go in here, where we can hear each other."

They both went into the small room and sat down across from each other at the table.

"What's your name?" Tristan asked, pen poised to write.

"Freddy. Freddy—Schwartz," he answered.

"What's your address?"

Freddy gave the information requested.

"So you live below Erika Hart?" Tristan asked.

"Yes. And there's an air vent up by my ceiling, so I can hear a lot of what goes on up there."

"Such as?" Tristan asked with a raised brow.

Freddy didn't answer right away. He looked a little nervous as his eyes darted around a little. But when he spoke, he sounded calm and cool, "Could I talk to the reporter?"

Tristan did not respond immediately. "Who?"  
>Freddy nodded. "The reporter. I'd rather talk to her."<p>

"What reporter?" Tristan asked coldly.

"You of all people know which one," Freddy said, a little more confident.

Tristan shook his head slowly. "Nope. I really don't." He gave the kid a good look, and focused more than he had before. He thought Freddy looked vaguely familiar, but couldn't place him.

"Well she knows me. I pretended to be a police source last week."

Tristan reached across the table and grabbed Freddy's shirt collar. He pulled Freddy closer so he could get in his face. "Are you the one who threatened her?" he demanded.

Freddy had wide eyes, but answered, "Threatened who?"

Tristan held him there for a few seconds before he roughly let him go. He crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. He glared across the table angrily.

"I know stuff."  
>"Then tell me," Tristan said. "<em>I'm<em> the one investigating this murder."

"I can plead the fifth, can't I?" Freddy asked.

"Not really. You aren't a suspect. You're just obstructing justice."

"Oh," Freddy said, paling slightly.

"Detective, a word," Captain Meyer said over the intercom.

Tristan stood up and left Freddy in the room.

His boss was standing at the two-way mirror. "That kid knows something about your case?" Meyer asked.

Tristan shrugged. "That's what he says."

"Why won't he talk to you?"

"Hell if I know. What's the point of coming down here if he isn't going to tell me what he knows?"

The captain thought a moment. "Call her."

Tristan frowned. "Call who?"

"The reporter."

"_What_ reporter?" Tristan asked irritably.

"_Your_ reporter. Ask her if she'll talk to him."

"What? No," he retorted.

"They can sit right in there and we can watch, if she's willing to talk to him."

"_I'm_ not asking her to do that."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Rory was on the sky deck of the Empire State Building. She wasn't completely sure how she'd ended up there. She had her arms propped up on the edge of the building as she gazed out at the city that stretched out before her.

She didn't know what to do. She really did love New York City. She moved there for a reason. The fast paced city had lured her in. Plus, it was the media capitol of the world. It seemed like a logical place for a journalist.

She thought about all the reasons why she wanted to become a foreign correspondent. It was always her go-to answer when anyone asked what she wanted to do with her life. And she knew why she wanted to do it, too. She wanted to see world events as they happened. She wanted to tell others the truth about what was going on. She wanted to be a part of something big.

New York was big, she considered. But she wanted to see the _world_ while she reported the big stories. New York City wasn't the whole world. She'd gotten good at reporting the city's crime, and she liked her job, but would she be settling if she stayed?

She'd set a high standard for herself, with foreign correspondence. But she never doubted that she'd reach it someday. When had it become a hypothetical goal? She wasn't sure.

She considered her previous desire to report politics. That wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It didn't seem like the facts mattered—substance took a back seat to the horse and pony show. The press looked as silly as the politicians they had to follow. What if she finally reached her goal, just to find out that she didn't like _it_, too? And what would she have to give up on the way?

Rory sighed and turned a little, toward Times Square. The city had a lot to offer, there was no doubt about that. In fact, she thought, it had everything. When she looked straight ahead, she could practically see Central Park. All she had to do was turn around to get a view of the Statue of Liberty.

She thought about the editor job. It would definitely look impressive on her resume. It would be a good experience, too. But she remembered what Tristan said, the boss has to stay in the office all day. She wouldn't get to leave whenever she wanted. She wouldn't be able to sneak off to the Empire State Building in the middle of the afternoon. Not that South Carolina _had_ an Empire State Building to sneak off to. She gave her head a mental shake. She couldn't make a life changing decision based on tourist attractions.

She wondered if being editor would lead her in the right direction. It wasn't like the _Herald-Journal_ had a foreign desk. Those stories came from the Associate Press, just like at the _Daily News_. Maybe she'd end up rising through the ranks of the business instead. But editors didn't get to write much—she remembered. Was she ready to put away her pen and stop reporting the news? Then again, there was _The Times_ . . . But she probably shouldn't put her eggs in that basket. There was no way of knowing whether or not she could get back to New York just by working at one of their papers.

Then she thought about Tristan. And it made her feel sad. She didn't know what he'd do if she took the job. Would he break up with her, if he thought she was leaving him for her career? Would he take it personally? Should she just ask him to go? This could be telling, though. If he didn't want to go with her to South Carolina, it might indicate where _else_ he wouldn't go.

She swallowed hard and shook her head. She felt guilty for selling him short. She should give him some credit. Maybe he _would_ go with her—if she asked. That would require courage on her part. She'd have to set aside her fear of freaking him out about the future if she really wanted him in it.

Rory exhaled heavily. All this thinking was giving her a tension headache. She wondered why her feet had brought her up here in the first place, it hadn't done any good. Plus, it was really hot out. She looked down at her watch and a tear fell on her wrist. She sniffled a bit and put a hand to her cheek. Was she crying? She hadn't realized.

She needed to get back to work. She hadn't told anyone where she was. Her cell phone buzzed and she checked the caller ID. It was James. She wondered why her ears weren't ringing.

"Hello?" she answered as she headed for the elevator.

"Hey, where are you?" he asked.

"Out," she answered vaguely.

"The police are here for you."

"What? You mean Tristan?" she asked slowly.

"No. A couple of uniforms. They say they're supposed to take you to the police station."

Rory felt her pulse speed up nervously. It finally happened. She was in trouble and they were bringing her in. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"Okay. I'll uh, be right there."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A little while later, Rory walked out of the elevator at the third floor of the twenty-first precinct. She glanced around the squad room until she saw Tristan, standing next to a two-way mirror with his arms crossed and scowling. She took her time as she walked in his direction. Though her mind had raced on the ride over, she hadn't thought of an explanation.

This was it, she thought. He found out what she knew and he was going to break up with her. She had no choice but to take the job in South Carolina now. She didn't have to worry about a long distance relationship or asking him to go along. It wouldn't matter. Too bad it didn't make her feel any better. She only hoped that he'd take her aside to cut her loose, she couldn't take it if he dumped her in front of everyone.

"Hey," she said nervously when she'd reached him.

He looked at her and she saw his jaw unclench. He silently took her arm and led her over to his desk. He picked up an iced coffee and handed it to her.

She frowned as she looked down at the beverage and then back up at him. "What's this for?" Maybe it was to soften the blow, she thought.

"In apology that my _boss_ had you come here," Tristan explained. "I tried to talk him out of it. This isn't your problem."

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Some guy showed up. He said he wants to talk with you—instead of us."

"What guy?"

Tristan nodded over at the window that looked into one of the interrogation rooms.

Rory gasped. "Oh my God. Is that Freddy?"

"Yeah. Freddy Schwartz."

Schwartz, Rory thought. So Tristan couldn't know about Jeff. "What is he doing here?" she asked.

"He says he knows you," Tristan answered. He looked back at Rory with furrowed brows. "So you do know him?"

Rory nodded.

"Where do _I_ know him from?" he asked.

"The coffee stand at the student center. You know, at Columbia. You've bought coffee from him."

"That's it," Tristan said. He shook his head. "That was bothering me."

"That isn't all," Rory went on. "He was the one calling me last week. With information about your case."

"Yeah, he said he lives below Erika Hart. He'd like to continue talking to _you_ about it."

"Why?" she asked in a worried tone.

"I don't know. Just tell Meyer you don't want to do it. He can't make you act on our behalf. Tell him no and go back to work."

Rory thought about it. She was too curious about what Freddy was up to now. "I'll do it."

"You really don't have to."

"No, it's okay. I want to help."

Tristan sighed. "Fine." He led her over to the interrogation room and opened the door. "I'll be right out here."

Rory felt a little nervous when she saw Mark and Captain Meyer head over to the window to join Tristan. They'd all be watching and listening. She was used to people reading polished final drafts after she interviewed people. She wondered how broadcast journalists did it. It seemed like a lot of pressure.

When Freddy saw her, he greeted her, "Hi Rory."

She sat down across from him. "Freddy," she said curtly—without smiling. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm just trying to help."

"Why do you want to talk to me?"

Freddy shrugged. "You're nicer. Although I did get the chance to chat with your boyfriend. And I was wondering, what do you see in him?"

Rory stared at Freddy for a moment before she dryly answered, "He has excellent table manners."

"Ah, that explains it."

"What are you doing here?" she asked again.

"I told you, I want to help—with the Courtney Rivers murder. I live below Erika Hart and could hear everything that went on up in her apartment," Freddy explained. "Did you pass along the stuff I told you?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

Rory hesitated a moment. "No."

"What did you leave out?"

"You said you killed Courtney. But you were working when she was killed. And I didn't want to pass on false information."

"Is that the only reason?"

She exhaled heavily. She was frustrated that Freddy was running things. "No," she answered. She paused before continuing, "I didn't know you were lying. And you threated to kill Tristan if I told." She felt her face get warm, embarrassed for falling for the empty threat.

"So?"

She looked at him incredulously. "So I like him alive."

Freddy shrugged and smirked just a little. "He's just some guy."

Rory scowled. "No he isn't. He's my boyfriend."

"You could find a new one. There are lots of places to find other guys," Freddy said with a brow raised pointedly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I don't _want_ a new one," she said through gritted teeth. "I want to keep the one that I have." She leaned in toward Freddy. "What are you doing?"

"I'm helping."

She sat back. "Then let's get back to Courtney Rivers."

"Okay," he agreed. "I've been wondering, why didn't you write about the stuff I told you about her murder?"

"Because you claimed to be the police, and you aren't. You lacked credibility."

"So? A source is a source. You're just trying to sell papers."

"That's not—I mean I—," Rory started, but she didn't know where to go with her excuse. She was flustered. "It would have made the police look bad—to write something they didn't know about."

"That's their problem."

"If I want them to respect what I do, then I have to respect what they do."

"Mm-hmm. Do you do that a lot?"

"Do what?"

"Withhold information longer than other reporters would."

She shrugged. "It depends on the case."

"The case? Or the person investigating?"

Rory averted her eyes, annoyed that she was blatantly being called out on what she did—or didn't—report, and why.

Freddy continued. "_I_ think you consider more than your career when you're at work."

"It's—I don't," she stuttered, but she was unable to come up with a convincing argument.

She wondered how long this had been the case. She had a sneaking suspicion it was about two years. What excuse had she been telling herself? So much for leaving Tristan out and watching the cookie crumble. She was starting to think that Freddy might be an evil genius.

Determined to get the upper hand in the interview—or whatever this was—Rory changed the subject and asked, "Did you know Courtney Rivers was sleeping with a bunch of men for money?"

Seeing that Rory was finished talking about her priorities in life, Freddy answered, "Yes."

"Was Erika Hart's boyfriend sleeping with her?"

"Yes."

"You said the police should look into him. Did he kill Courtney?"

"I'm not sure. But he's not a good guy."

Rory narrowed her eyes at him. "Why won't you just tell everyone who _did_ do it?"

"Because I wasn't there at the time. I just know of some people who it _could_ be."

She was tired of talking to Freddy. He wasn't going to say more anyway. So she stood up and walked out of the interrogation room. She looked at the people who were watching, but it was only Mark and Captain Meyer. With knit brows, she looked around the precinct and saw Tristan standing next to his desk. He was talking into his cell phone and had his back turned.

Mark headed into the interrogation room—maybe he wanted to try to get more out of Freddy—and Rory headed over to Tristan. When he turned, he saw her approaching him.

"I have to go," he said quickly. "I'll see you later." He put the phone in his pocket and looked at her with raised brows.

"I'm sorry," Rory said. "I should have told you what was going on. But I was scared," she said with tears in her eyes. "I didn't want anything bad to happen to you. I was so scared when you left Saturday morning."

He thought back for a moment. "That explains a couple things. Don't worry about it," he said. "It's okay." He put an arm around her shoulders and rubbed her arm comfortingly.

She hugged him and shook her head. "No it isn't. I should have just said something. I was stupid."

"No you weren't. It was that jerk in there."

"Right. Freddy."

"I'm going to keep him in a holding cell overnight."

"For what?"

Tristan shrugged. "I'm not picky."

"Can you do that?"

"Sure. He pretended to be a cop. That'll get him a year in prison."

"Does it count if it was over the phone?"

"I don't really care. He messed with you for his own entertainment. He can stay in jail for a night."

"Today must be one of those days where patent law looks pretty good," she commented.

Tristan laughed a little and shook his head. "Nah, you were right. I don't want to do that."

"Right," she agreed solemnly and averted her gaze.

"Besides, I was thinking too small. If I go into law, it should at least be worth my while. Like International Criminal Court."

Rory knit her brows and looked back up at him. "Don't they hold court in the Netherlands?"

"Yeah, at The Hague," he said with a nod. "Or there's Interpol."

"The band?"

He grinned and poked her in the side. "No silly. The international police," he clarified. "And the United Nations has police, too. It'd be pretty hard for me to get bored since there are so many member countries."

She stared at him for a moment as she processed what he was saying. "So you're thinking of going global?"

Tristan shrugged and nodded. "Sure. It's practical to think about what else I can do."

"That sounds prudent," she agreed. "And you think you might _have_ to—one day?"

He nodded again. "Probably," he answered. "Plus, why should I limit my talents to New York, when I can be making the world safer?"

She continued to stare at him and smiled a little. For the first time that week, she felt better. She could stop thinking so hard. "Will you—"

"DuGrey," the captain said from the doorway of his office. Both Tristan and Rory looked over. "Get over here," Captain Meyer said.

Tristan nodded. "Just a minute." He steered Rory around his desk and walked her out to the hallway, in front of the elevator. While they waited, he asked, "Were you saying something?"

"Oh, yeah. Will you be coming over tonight?"

"Where else would I go?" he asked as his answer. "But I'll be late. I have to go to Hartford."

"Your grandfather summoned you?"

"Yeah. So I have to go."

"Okay. Do you want me to go along?"

"No," Tristan answered quickly. "I mean, you should go home and get some rest. You've had a stressful week."

He had no idea, Rory thought. "Okay," she said as the door opened. As the elevator doors opened, she hugged him quickly and he tilted his head down to meet her for a kiss. "See you tonight," she said before they parted.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Check mate," Janlen DuGrey said as he moved his white playing piece.

"You win again," Tristan said. They were seated in the living room of Janlen's Hartford mansion. Tristan had his cheek resting against his fist as he looked down at the board in front of him. He started moving his black pieces back to their assigned squares. "Do you want to play again?"

"Not really," Janlen answered. He sat back in his chair. "Partly because it's not fun to play when my opponent doesn't have his head in the game."

"Oh, sorry," Tristan muttered vaguely.

"I'm a little distracted as well, though, since I'm waiting with baited breath to find out why you asked to come over tonight. Especially since you missed dinner," Janlen said.

"Sorry I was late. I had to work."

"It's no problem. But still, certainly you didn't come all the way here to lose at chess."

Tristan lifted his eyes and shook his head no.

"Well, don't hold out any longer. I can't stand the intrigue."


	7. Shine

**Title**: Ain't Life Grand

**Chapter 7**: Shine

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing! The title of the fourth story is: 'It's Five O'clock Somewhere'.

_Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear. –Ambrose Redmoon_

**Shine**

On Thursday morning, Rory woke up to the sound of her alarm clock. She turned it off rather than hit the snooze button. After taking a minute to wake up, she pushed the blanket back. But before she could get out of bed, an arm snaked around her and held her in place. She turned her head a little.

"Where are you going?" Tristan slurred tiredly.

"To get ready for work," she answered.

He pulled her up against him and asked, "What time is it?"

"Six thirty."

"It's early. You have time to sleep some more."

"No. I have a meeting," she protested as she laid her arm alongside his.

Tristan shook his head into her hair. "That was yesterday."

"That was the staff meeting. I'm talking with Jimmy today. Privately."

"Mmm," he mumbled without letting her go. "Talk to him later."

"I would if I could, but early morning is the only time he could do it. He has meetings all day with the higher ups and I want to make sure I get to him first."

"Fine," Tristan said, letting her go.

Rory went across the hall to shower and fix her hair. When she returned to the bedroom thirty minutes later, she was surprised to see Tristan up and dressed. The bed was made and he was pilfering through the jewelry box that was sitting on her dresser.

"I think there might be a bracelet in there that'll match your tie," she teased as she went to the overpopulated closet. She didn't notice Tristan look up sharply and shove his hand in his pocket. She pulled out a skirt and a blouse before going to the dresser for a pair of underwear. "Are you looking for something in particular?" she asked him as she removed her robe.

"Oh uh, I was just looking," he said hastily.

"For?"

"Gaps in your collection. It's my job to fill them."

"It is?"

"Mm-hmm. At least, it isn't anyone else's job."

"Oh. Okay. So, did you find any?" she asked as she put on her skirt.

"Any what?"

"Gaps in my jewelry collection."

"Oh right. Yes. You don't have any rubies. Girls like rubies. Right?"

Rory buttoned her blouse and shrugged. "Sure. If you really want to get me some, I'll wear them."

"You should probably wait to see what I get before you go making promises," Tristan said as he closed the small drawer of the jewelry box.

She furrowed her brows at him. "All right." She went back to her closet to get her shoes. "So, how was your grandfather last night?"

"Good," Tristan answered.

"Was he happy to see you?" Rory asked, prodding for more details.

"Exceptionally."

"Why did he want you over for dinner in the middle of the week?" she asked as they both left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen.

Tristan paused before answering with, "Oh, uh, you know. To talk—about . . . stuff."

Rory took out a travel mug from the cabinet, since Tristan had made coffee when she was in the shower. "Stuff?" she inquired.

"Yeah. Stuff," he answered. He shook his head when she offered him a mug.

"What kind of stuff?"

"Stuff like . . . life. Things in life."

She glanced at him briefly as she poured herself some coffee to go. "Okay, just so you know, you're being weird," she informed him.

"I am not. I'm being normal," he argued.

She put the pot back down and turned the coffee machine off. She shook her head and held her hand up with her thumb and index finger close together. "A little weird."

"Well _you're_ being nosy," he countered.

"Is this new?" she asked.

He shook his head and glanced at the time on the microwave. "I need to get going."

"Already? Do you have a meeting too?"

He shook his head again. "Nope, just an errand to run."

"What kind of errand?"

"There you go again, being nosy."

"What can I say? I'm curious about your life. Your weird, weird life."

"I guess you'd know weird when you see it," he commented.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked indignantly.

"What do you think?"

"I _think_ you're calling me weird."

"You said it, not me," he pointed out. "The last time _I_ said it, you didn't take it very well."

Rory thought back to when that was and felt her face get a little warm. She'd hoped he had forgotten about that by now.

He stepped closer to her. "See you tonight," he said before he gave her a kiss good bye.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A little while later, Rory was sitting in an office at the _Daily News_. She was staring across the cluttered desk at her editor.

"Well?" James started, wondering why Rory wanted to meet with him.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" she asked.

He furrowed his brows. "No."

"Then why did you find me a new job?"

He leaned back in his chair and considered her question. "You seemed unhappy in your position."

"That wasn't the problem. I do like my current position. The problem arose when you tried to give it to someone else."

"Look Rory, I'm not trying to get rid of you. I just thought that you should spread your wings and try something new. And you were right, you can handle more. You can be doing more than the crime beat. You've served your time."

"I'm not arguing about that."

"Okay then. Did you decide whether or not you're taking the job?"

She paused for a moment before answering, "Maybe. There's something I have to do first. And I want to run it by someone."

"Keep me posted. Now get out of here, I need to get upstairs."

Rory did as she was told. She walked out to the sleepy newsroom, passing by her colleagues, who were sipping their morning coffee as they started their day. When she got to her desk, there was a long narrow box waiting for her. She looked over at Marie.

"Were you here when this came for me?" Rory asked.

Marie looked over. "Yeah. It was just a couple minutes ago. A messenger left it. Why, what it is?"

"I don't know," Rory answered with a shake of her head. She thought about the last time someone sent her something via messenger. She sighed and opened the box. There was a single long stemmed rose in it.

"So?" Marie asked.

"It's a rose."

"Oh. The boyfriend sent it then?"

Rory shook her head. "No. It's a _dead_ rose," she elaborated. "Then again, he _did_ run an errand before work this morning."

Marie stood up so she could peer into the box. "Wow. Someone really sent you a dead rose. I think you've officially made it in the journalism world."

"Great," Rory said dryly. She sat down and drummed her fingers on the desk as she wondered what to do. She saw a small note sticking out of the box and took it out to read. It was a handwritten note that read, 'You've been warned'.

Yup, it was another threat, she thought. She picked up her desk phone and dialed.

"DuGrey," Tristan answered.

"Hey. So, I got another one," she told him.

"Another one what?"

"Threat."

"What was it this time?"

"A dead rose. And a note of warning."

Tristan paused briefly before saying, "Okay."

"So," she started, "I guess I'll be reporting this one, like the others."

"I guess so. Thanks for the heads up."

"You're welcome." Rory heard an elevator ding on his end of the line. "So I'll see you in about ten minutes then?"

"Unless I'm faster," he said before he disconnected.

Rory hung up her own phone and drummed her fingers on the desk again. She took her notebook out of her messenger bag and flipped to the page where she'd written down Jeff Levin's account of the robbery. She ripped the page out and went to the second page, where she'd had him repeat his story. She ripped it out as well. She took the two sheets to the copy room and put them through the shredder.

She wasn't tampering with evidence, she reasoned. She knew Jeff wasn't the one leaving her cryptic messages and floral arrangements. Plus, the other two people involved in the robbery didn't know she'd been talking with the person they framed.

When she was finished, she went back to her desk and had a seat. She didn't have to wait long before she saw Tristan glancing around the newsroom. She waved a hand to catch his attention and he walked over.

"Here it is," she said, nodding to the box on her desk.

Tristan opened it and frowned down at the dead flower. He picked up the note and read it. "What time did this come?"

"I don't know. It was delivered when I was talking with Jimmy in his office," Rory answered. "But Marie was here." She turned to her co-worker with raised eyebrows.

"Oh, uh, a messenger brought it in around nine o'clock," Marie supplied. She blushed a little, it was her first time being questioned by the police. She wondered if she should have paid attention to how tall the messenger was.

"Did someone have to sign for it?" he asked.

"I didn't," Marie said quickly.

"The receptionist probably did," Rory said.

He nodded and walked to the lobby. When he returned ten minutes later, he asked, "Did you save the voicemail from the other day?"

"Yes," Rory answered. She picked up her phone and dialed. She punched in her access code and handed the phone to Tristan. She stood up and offered him her chair.

After he listened to the message a few times, he asked, "Do you recognize the voice?"

She shook her head. "No, not since it's muffled."

He wrote down what the caller said and looked up at Rory. "Where's the note from yesterday?"

"The police took it when they came to file the report," she answered.

He nodded. "Then where's the copy you made for yourself before they got here?"

"You don't know me," she said without any conviction.

He stared at her and she stared back. She opened her drawer to take out a couple sheets of paper that were stapled together. It was a copy of the note as well as the envelope that was addressed to her pseudonym. She handed it over and Tristan stuck it in his notebook. She didn't get upset over him taking her copy—she'd made two.

He asked slowly, "Do you have any idea who's giving you all this special attention?"

Rory shrugged. "I'm not one hundred percent sure. But I might have an idea."

He propped his elbows on her desk and pressed his hands together. He sat silently and considered this for a moment. "Do I need a subpoena to see what you've been investigating?"

"No," she answered as she opened her messenger bag. "You have access to all the original police reports anyway." She handed over all of her files. She also included her notebook.

Tristan opened the notebook to peruse her recent interviews. As he read, Rory gave a summary of her week's activities, "I've talked with Derek Crabtree—one of the burglars—and Officer Young's widow, Diane. But the other officer, Douglas Aldred, didn't want to talk."

After a couple minutes of reading, Tristan wrote down all the names Rory mentioned. "You know, the guy who killed that cop escaped from prison," he said before he looked up at her.

So he knew. "Yeah," Rory said. "I read something about that." And if he asked, she'd tell him where to find the guy.

"You don't suppose he's the one upset with you for sniffing around, do you?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. How would he know I've been talking to the other two people involved? He's on the run."

"But maybe his partner-in-crime warned him about you," Tristan countered.

"Maybe," Rory agreed vaguely.

"Have you been assigned this case for a story?" he inquired with a quizzical expression.

"Uh, not exactly."

"Then why are you doing all this research?"

"You know I find stories without being assigned sometimes. Plus, that mysterious source from last week claimed to be Jack Young, and I wanted to find out why he'd do that," she answered. That _was_ why she'd originally started investigating, after all.

"And?"

"And what?"

"What have you come up with?"

"Oh. Well, maybe someone wants to know where Jeff Levin is, so he'll be put back in prison."

Tristan closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. He opened his eyes and sighed before he stood up. "I'll file a formal report and look into the messenger service," he said. He nodded down at his notebook. "And I'll probably have a chat with these people you've interviewed, if it looks like it was one of them. But right now my bets are on the guy who doesn't want to go back to jail."

He stood and picked up the rose box. He headed out of the newsroom and Rory followed.

"That's it?" she asked with a frown.

"What else am I supposed to do?" he asked as they walked through the lobby. They stopped when they were in front of the elevator.

"You're not going to tell me to stop sniffing around?"

He shook his head. "I can't control what you do at work anymore than you can control what I do."

"Oh."

"But for what it's worth, if I thought it would do any good, I'd advise it." The doors opened and he turned to her. He kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear, "See you later."

Rory walked back to her desk and looked at all the papers. Not knowing what to do next as far as the robbery went, she put the files back in her messenger bag. Instead, she decided to work on something she had more control over—her career. She turned to her computer, where she typed in a web address and clicked a few times until she found what she was looking for. She filled out a form and then looked up a contact in her Rolodex. With a number in front of her, she picked up her phone and dialed.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

That afternoon, Tristan was in the precinct, watching as his partner questioned John Bell in an interrogation room. They'd gotten a warrant and made an arrest that day. After about ten minutes, Tristan glanced around the precinct. Someone who'd just walked in caught his attention and he did a double take. Tristan scowled and crossed the room.

"Jeff Levin?" he asked. When the man nodded silently, Tristan steered him over to the holding cell. "You're under arrest for escaping state prison." He went on to Mirandize Jeff, who stated that he understood his rights.

"You threatened the wrong reporter," Tristan informed him after he'd slid the cell door shut.

Freddy, who had been sitting on a bench, stood up with wide eyes and approached Tristan. "Do I get a phone call?" he asked.

"Sure," Tristan answered. "Right after _I_ make one to Sing-Sing." He turned and headed for the captain's office.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Not long thereafter, Rory walked into the squad room at the precinct. She looked over at the holding cell and Freddy stood up to meet her at the bars.

"What's going on?" she asked with furrowed brows. She glanced to the back of cell and saw Jeff sitting on the bench. Her eyes grew wide. "Oh my God, what's going on?"

"He just walked into the police station a half hour ago," Freddy answered in frustration. "I don't know what he's doing."

Just then, Tristan walked over to Rory.

"You got him," she stated as she pointed at Jeff. "After just a few hours, you got him. I'm really impressed. You're an amazing detective." Her heart was beating rapidly as she looked at Tristan.

"Thanks," he said. "But to be fair, he walked right in."

"Oh," she said with a nod. "Do you know why?"

Tristan shook his head. "Nope. But it doesn't matter. He'll be transported to Rikers before the end of the day and they'll make sure he gets back to Sing-Sing."

"Ah."

"So what are you doing here?" he asked her.

"Uh, I got a call," she answered nervously.

"From who?"

"Freddy."

"What?" he said. He glared into the cell at Freddy. "You called _her_?"

"Yeah," Freddy answered with a shrug.

Jeff stood up then and walked over to join the other three.

Tristan scowled at Jeff as he addressed Rory, "You don't have to worry about getting any more threats."

"I didn't threaten anyone," Jeff countered.

"Uh, just out of curiosity," Rory started, "why did you suddenly turn yourself in?"

"Because this isn't fair to you guys," he answered.

"What guys?" Tristan asked.

Jeff looked at him and said, "My brother and your girlfriend."

Tristan clenched his jaw and didn't say anything at first. "What girlfriend?" he asked in a steely tone.

"This again?" Freddy asked rhetorically. "What reporter, what girlfriend—she's standing _right there_," he said exasperatedly, pointing to Rory.

Tristan narrowed his eyes as he slowly looked from Freddy to Jeff. "What are you talking about?"

Rory crossed her arms and averted her gaze. "Tell him your last name, Freddy. Your _real_ last name."

Freddy glanced at Tristan's gun before saying, "I'd rather not."

"Then I will," Jeff said. "It's Levin. He's my brother."

"What the hell is going on?" Tristan asked. He looked at Rory. "Do you know what this is about?"

She sighed and looked up at him. "Freddy was the one calling me last week with tips about your case."

"I know that part."

"And he said he was Jack Young, hoping that I'd find out he's dead."

"He's dead because this guy shot him," Tristan said, nodding at Jeff.

"No he didn't!" Freddy said.

Rory continued, "Freddy and I had a summer class together, so he knew that I'm an investigative reporter. He wanted me to figure out what really happened the night of the robbery—to clear Jeff's name."

"That isn't your job," Tristan said. He looked at Freddy. "That isn't her job."

Rory said, "That's what _I_ told him."

"It's true, she did," Freddy agreed. "She wanted to tell you. So I told her we were sources."

"We?"

"Yeah, we," Freddy said. "Me and Jeff."

"He's been harboring a fugitive," Rory said grimly. "And I've known about it since Saturday." She was blinking back tears. "I didn't like that Freddy was threatening you, and I was pretty sure it was him that was calling me. So I went to confront him."

This was it. This was the end. There was no way Tristan would forgive her for this. She swallowed hard so she could continue with the little defense she had, "I wanted to leave and come tell you. But Freddy said it was all off the record and that they were _sources_." Tears were falling from her eyes by this point. She felt liberated to have the burden of the secret lifted, but mourned what was surely to come. She looked up at Tristan shamefacedly.

He was silent for a few seconds after her explanation. One of his hands was holding a cell bar. His knuckles were white from gripping it so hard. He turned angry eyes on Freddy. "So you forced her silence by taking advantage of her journalistic integrity?" It was more of a statement than a question.

Still, Freddy nervously answered, "Kind of."

"Don't you want to know why he did it?" Rory asked.

"Obviously to keep his brother out of jail," Tristan answered.

She shook her head. "There's more to it," she said. "Jeff was in the apartment when Courtney Rivers was killed. He knows who did it. And if someone proves he's innocent, he'll tell you who the murderer is."

"Well don't worry about that. We made an arrest today."

"Who?" she asked. "John Bell?"

Tristan nodded before glancing over towards the interrogation rooms. "Speak of the devil."

Rory followed his gaze and saw Stevenson leading a man over to the holding cell. When Bell was deposited behind bars, Mark glanced at the four who were in conversation. "What's up?"

"I'm about to get arrested," she answered. "And probably dumped—all in one." She held up he hands and offered them to Tristan.

"Why?" he asked.

Remembering part of Rory's ramblings from Saturday when she came to confront him, Freddy answered for her, "Because she said you'd be an idiot not to."

Mark looked at his partner. "She got lucky with that one."

Tristan ignored him.

"Do you want him to do it instead?" Rory asked, tilting her head toward Mark.

Tristan put a hand over her two fists and lowered her arms. "You aren't getting arrested. And you'll have to do better than that to get rid of me."

"I'm not getting arrested?" she asked. "But I'm an accomplice, aren't I?"

"Did you help Levin escape from prison?"

"No."

"Did you hide him?"

"No. But I knew where he was and didn't tell you. Doesn't that make me an accessory or something?"

"You're protected by your first amendment rights, you know," Tristan reminded her.

"Really? That covers me?" she asked, not fully convinced of her innocence. "You're sure?"

"Yes," he answered. Then he added, "I'm pretty sure I know your rights better than you."

"But what about being in contempt of court?" she asked.

"You have to be in front of a judge—_in_ court—to be in contempt of court," he pointed out. "And even then, there's direct and indirect contempt. They give you a chance to come clean before they throw you in jail."

"But I was withholding information from the police," she persisted.

"Do you _want_ to go to prison?" Tristan inquired. "You were never questioned."

"She would have told you, if you did question her," Jeff offered in her defense. "She isn't willing to go to jail for me."

"Good to know," Tristan said. He looked back at Rory. "See? You're fine."

"That's it? I'm not in trouble?" she asked. A couple more tears escaped her eyes, but they were happy, relieved tears.

"Nope."

"I'm so glad you're smart," she said with a small smile.

He shrugged. "As a person who's been in hot pursuit of a member of the press for almost two years, I thought it might be a good idea to brush up on first amendment rights."

"Oh," Rory said. She quietly added, "Just always thinking about what might come up."

"So," Mark said. "I still don't really understand what's going on."

Tristan tilted his head toward Freddy. "This guy tried to run things. But everything is cleared up now."

"Except you arrested the wrong guy," Jeff argued. He pointed at John Bell, who had taken a seat at the bench. "He didn't kill Courtney Rivers."

John, hearing his name, chimed in, "That's what I keep telling them."

"How do you know?" Mark asked.

"I live below Erika Hart. I could hear everything," Jeff answered.

Mark frowned and pointed to Freddy. "But I thought he—what?"

Rory sighed and explained the situation again.

"Who did it then?" Mark asked Jeff.

Freddy shook his head at his brother. "Don't say anything."

"Is _he_ a lawyer too?" Mark asked Tristan.

"No," Rory answered. "He's just some sort of evil genius."

Tristan looked at Jeff with his best threatening face. "Tell us who the real murderer is."

"Why should I?" Jeff asked.

"Because you're obstructing justice," Freddy supplied. "At least, that's what I was doing yesterday."

"Fine," Jeff said with a shrug. "Go ahead and press charges. You can add another five years to my life sentence. I don't really have anything to lose here. You're the police, _you_ figure it out. I already turned myself in. I don't have to help you."

Tristan exhaled heavily in frustration as he crossed his arms confrontationally.

Rory timidly said, "I think he was wrongfully accused."

"That isn't my problem," he said. "Or yours."

She considered him for a moment before she went on, "Would you have been okay with going to military school if you hadn't done anything to deserve it?"

"I _did_ deserve it," he argued. "Surely you've read _Crime and Punishment_."

"But if you _hadn't_," she continued. "Wouldn't you want to go back to life the way it was?"

Tristan shrugged. "I guess."

"If we figure out who really killed Jack Young, Jeff will tell you who killed Courtney Rivers. The only evidence that says he _did_ is the word of the other two witnesses. I think they're both lying though," Rory said.

"Who do you think did it?" Mark asked her.

Rory hesitated before answering with, "Douglas Aldred. Young's partner."

"This isn't really a good place to accuse a cop," Tristan commented.

She looked at both of the detectives with furrowed brows. "It's your job to uphold the law, but who protects the people if you cross the line?" she asked.

Mark answered, "The suits."

She nodded and looked at Tristan. "So do me a favor. Switch over to the lawyer side of your brain. It's probably more natural for that side to kick in, anyway," she said dryly. "Remember what you said last week when Freddy was claiming to be a cop?"

Tristan shrugged. "What?"

"Police are supposed to be trustable. Wouldn't you rather a jury believe _you_ over a criminal?"

He paused before he grudgingly admitted, "I guess." He turned to Jeff. "You could try to get an appeal."

"But I think I know what happened," Rory cut in. "Doesn't he have to be set free if someone else is guilty?"

"Yes."

"So we just need to prove it was Aldred," she said. "And do it before the Rikers guards get here."

Tristan paused again before sighing and saying, "We don't have very long. Let's take a look at those witness accounts you have." He and Mark headed for their desks and Rory followed.

She put her messenger bag on Tristan's desk and started unloading it. She handed over the police reports and court transcripts for the detectives to read. She also took out her notebook containing interviews, like she had that morning. But before handing it over, she said, "I talked to Jack Young's widow."

"Mm-hmm," Tristan muttered as he looked through all the documents. "You told me that already."

"Yeah, but I left one thing out. She's remarried now. To Douglas Aldred."

Tristan glanced at her, perplexed. "She married her dead husband's partner?"

"Yeah. Would that be a good motive to kill someone?"

"It's a possibility. But then you'd have to prove that it was premeditated."

"Oh. That's true," she admitted. "Either way, he's married to her now. When I tried to talk to him, he said I upset his wife, but that isn't even true. She was willing to talk to me." Rory flipped to the notebook page where she'd made notes about the phone call she eavesdropped on. "Look at this," she said as she handed the notebook over.

"What is it?" Tristan asked as he looked at the information.

"It's a phone call I overheard when I was interviewing Diane Aldred. They've had money disappearing from their bank account. And it's being wired to New Jersey. Derek Crabtree _lives_ in New Jersey now."

"It could be hush money," Mark suggested.

"Or a coincidence," Rory said quickly before Tristan could.

"Right," he agreed. After he'd read through Aldred and Crabtree's accounts of the shooting, he went over to the holding cell and brought Jeff out in cuffs. Tristan sat him down next to the desks and locked him to the chair.

"All right," he said. "Tell us your version of what happened that night." He took a sheet a paper and drew a sketch of the jewelry store. He drew the order of events as Jeff explained what happened. Tristan had him go through it several times. He frowned. "So you were on the same side of the store as Young, but Crabtree and Aldred agree that you took _Aldred's_ gun?"

"Yes."

"But you have no idea who really did it?"

"Right. They said it was me. But I wasn't there, I'd already run out."

Tristan shuffled the papers around his desk to find the picture of Jack Young after he was shot. He concentrated on the photo for a moment before handing it over to Stevenson. "Look how he was shot. What do you think?"

Mark studied the picture. "It looks like the kind of shot they tell us to take at the academy."

Tristan nodded in agreement. He addressed Jeff, "The jury should have let you off on reasonable doubt alone. Who was your attorney?"

"State appointed."

Tristan nodded once. "That makes sense." He sat in thought for a few minutes. "We could go talk to Crabtree, try to get him to crack. He already slipped up on his story."

"We could set him up," Mark suggested. "Tell him Aldred confessed."

"Or," Rory said from her chair at the other end of Tristan's desk.

He turned to her. "Or what?"

"Someone could just talk to Aldred. He's right here in Manhattan. And if he confesses, this can all end."

"Crabtree could corroborate then," Tristan reasoned as he mulled it over.

Mark asked, "Who's going to get Aldred to confess? He'll have his guard up if he knows the police are looking into things. He already fooled the system once."

Tristan leaned back in his chair as he thought about how they should proceed. "I'm okay with sending Freddy in as bait."

"He doesn't talk to people for a living," Rory protested. She was silent for a moment before she said, "I could do it."

"Do what?" Tristan asked, turning to her.

"Get the confession from Aldred," she answered. "I can wear a wire and you guys can listen to the whole thing. You can be right outside, for backup." She liked the idea more as she talked about it.

Tristan shook his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because he's probably the one threatening you. And he might have already killed someone. Plus, he's a private investigator."

"So?"

"So, he'll have a gun and obviously knows how to use it," Tristan said. "So, no. Someone else will do it."

"Come on, I know how to talk to people. And I've already tried to talk to him once. I could just try again—in person. It's harder for people to tell me no to my face."

"I'm not having any trouble doing so _now_. This isn't your job."

"But _I_ did all the work," Rory protested. "I did the investigating. I should be the one to finish it."

Tristan shook his head again. "I said no. It isn't going to happen. I won't let you."

"Why?" she demanded again. "Just because he probably killed _one_ guy?"

"Yes. That's exactly why." He stood up and indicated Jeff should do the same. Tristan led him back to the holding cell.

Rory followed as she continued to argue. "I've talked to murderers before."

"But you haven't gotten them to confess to _being_ a murderer," Tristan countered, heading back to his desk.

"Then tell me how to do it and I'll do it. Just let me," she insisted from a step behind.

"_No_," he said again. "Murderers are dangerous." They stopped next to his and Mark's desks.

"Oh, I see," she said sarcastically. "_You_ can run around the city doing dangerous stuff like you're some sort of superhero, but Lois Lane has to stay away from the spotlight."

"It isn't about the spotlight. It's about staying alive," Tristan disputed. "I need you to be _alive_."

She glared at him for a moment before she defiantly said, "You know, Dan Rather interviewed Saddam Hussein. Barbara Walters interviewed Fidel Castro. And Christiane Amanpour interviewed Muammar al-Gaddafi and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad," Rory said, her voice rising with each journalist she named. "_Those_ were dangerous world leaders. But you think _I_ can't handle some guy who killed _one_ person?"

Tristan inhaled sharply. She may as well have slapped him in the face.

Mark had been watching from his desk. He cringed at her accusation.

Of course she'd bring in Amanpour as her big finish, Tristan thought wryly. He didn't _think_ she was testing him. But still, today would be an unfortunate day to set the wrong precedent.

After a moment, he said, "You're wearing a vest." He went to his desk and started putting the documents back in their files.

"What kind of vest?" she asked.

"The bullet proof kind. You're not going to talk to Aldred without one."

"What?" she asked in surprise. "I get to do it?"

"Well, didn't you steal a boat the last time someone said you couldn't do something?" he asked flatly. It was a rhetorical question. "I don't want to be held responsible for whatever law you break next." He added, "But you're doing it my way, and _I_ say you're wearing a Kevlar vest."

"They make those for the press you know," she said eagerly.

"I've heard," he said. "We need to go brief the captain on all this." He nodded in the direction of the office, indicating Mark and Rory should follow.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A few hours later, Rory was standing outside of a white police van that was full of audio equipment. They were two blocks away from Douglas Aldred's office in Lower Manhattan. In addition to Tristan and Mark, there were several law enforcement officials around them, getting ready to listen in on Rory's interview and the subsequent arrest—if she was successful.

They'd waited until the end of the work day, hoping that no one would be with Aldred. Someone stationed across the street from his office had just passed along the word that his secretary had left for the day.

As Mark hooked up a wire over the vest Rory was wearing, Tristan was giving her tips. "Watch for a tell—fast blinking, red face, foot tapping—anything that'll indicate that he's lying. When you think you've caught him in a lie, keep pressing him. Don't let up. If all else fails, bluff."

"Does that really work?" she asked.

He nodded. "If you're believable. He'd expect the police to do it. He might be caught off guard if it's coming from a reporter."

"But I'm not a good liar."

Mark said, "He'll be occupied with keeping his own lies straight."

Tristan nodded in agreement.

"Oh. Okay," she said, still unsure.

Mark checked with someone inside the van before turning back to Tristan and Rory. "We're ready," he told them.

Tristan—who had an earpiece and a tiny microphone to communicate with Mark—grabbed Rory's suit jacket, and took her arm to lead her down the sidewalk. Like her, he had his bullet proof vest on, though his wasn't hidden under his clothes.

Rory's heart pounded nervously as they walked toward to the office building. She was becoming more aware of what she was about to do, and was starting to freak out. Why had she insisted on being the one to do this?

When they'd reached the block of the private investigator's office, Tristan pulled Rory to the side, into an empty alley next to the building. He held up her black suit jacket that she'd gone home for. She slid her arms into the sleeves that stopped at her elbows and fastened the single button of the jacket.

She looked up at Tristan and anxiously asked, "Is it noticeable that I have a bullet proof vest under my clothes?"

He ran his hands over her chest and nodded. "Yes."

"I meant does it _look_ like I'm wearing one?" If she wasn't so nervous, she'd have rolled her eyes at him.

He looked at her chest without touching, but nodded again. "Yes."

"Maybe you're the wrong person to ask," she reasoned.

"Probably," he agreed.

She started to fan herself with her hand. "I'm so hot."

"Well, it's August and we're outdoors," he reasoned. Then he tried to joke, "Either that or you're a little conceited."

She shook her head. "I have on too much clothes."

"Normally I'd agree and help you out of it, but that's not an option right now," he said. Perhaps his anxiety for her was causing him to be slightly inappropriate, she thought. Then again, he was really just being himself.

"What am I doing?" she asked desperately.

"You're going to get a confession to put the right person in jail, so the innocent person can have his life back."

"And why do I want to be the person to do this again?"

"Because you like to help people," he reminded her. "For whatever reason, you want to help some guy you don't know. And for whatever reason, you want to help me find the person _I'm_ looking for."

"Oh. Right, that's why," she said. "My mouth is so dry. I should have brought some water. I won't be able to talk."

"You'll be fine. You can do it. Just act like it's a normal interview."

She nodded. "Right, this is normal. It's normal to be wearing a bullet proof vest under my shirt. Can I just ask you one thing?"

"Shoot."

"How do I be brave?"

He furrowed his brows. "Oh, uh, I don't really know."

"What do you _mean_ you don't know?" she asked incredulously.

He shrugged. "I don't know, just don't think about it. It usually helps to not think. Just do," he said in a somewhat redundant manner. "Fake it, if you have to." He reached around her and put a hand at her lower back, pulling her a step closer.

She felt something slide into the back of her skirt. "Now isn't really a good time," she protested, thinking he was trying to feel her up again. "Wait, what is that?" she asked, feeling around to the back of her skirt.

"It'll help with the bravery thing."

"Is it a _gun_?" she asked in panic-stricken disbelief.

"Relax, it's a girl gun. Call it an early birthday present."

"I don't want a gun for my birthday! And I don't like early birthday presents, I like them on my birthday. Isn't there a waiting period before you can get a firearm?"

"You don't know when I got that for you."

"_What_? What else do you have waiting for me?"

"Don't worry about that right now. You have to get through this first."

"Is it loaded?"

"What good is it if it isn't loaded?"

"I'd feel better if it wasn't loaded."

"_I_ wouldn't."

"But I don't know what to do with it."

"It's pretty self-explanatory. You just pull the trigger. And it isn't my fault that you don't want to learn how to use one. Just hold onto it. It's effective for crowd control."

"Are you crazy?"

"Possibly. I said you're doing this my way. _He's_ going to have a gun, so I feel a whole lot better with you having something to defend yourself if you need it"

"That's what the backup is for!"

"Just keep it. You don't have to use it."

"Oh my God," she muttered. She did the sign of the cross.

He raised a brow at that.

She shrugged. "It can't hurt. Right?"

"Sure," he agreed with a nod. "You can do it. You know it, I know it, so just go and do it." For all his reassuring words, he still looked pale. He hesitated for a couple seconds before he said, "I love you."

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like it's the last time you'll say it."

"Then make sure it isn't." He pulled her closer to him and kissed her.

When he let her go, she asked, "I can do it?"

He nodded. "You can do it."

She licked her lips and nodded. "Okay." She embraced him one more time and kissed him again.

They let go of each other and Tristan talked into the small microphone he had, "She's going in." He took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face the sidewalk. They walked in front of the office building and Tristan stopped next to a window. "I'll be right out here," he told her.

Rory nodded and took a deep breath as she continued to the door. She felt like she ought to knock, but remembered that this was a business, where anyone could walk in. So she did, and tried to will her heart to slow down when she heard the bell at the top of the door jingle as she entered the office. She immediately felt cool air wash over her. She took another deep breath to calm her nerves.

There was a small waiting area and a desk next to a door. She presumed the door was to Aldred's office. Before she could chicken out and bolt, the office door opened. A man in his late thirties came out to tend to Rory. She smiled a little, in an attempt to appear friendly.

"Can I help you?" Douglas asked.

"Uh, yes, can we talk?"

"Sure, come on in," he said, gesturing toward the office he'd just stepped out of.

Rory followed him and he offered the chair in front of the desk. She was self-conscious about the heavy vest under her shirt. And she felt the gun against the small of her back as she sat down. She really wished it wasn't there. Then again, she supposed they were evenly matched.

"So what can I do for you?" Douglas asked. "Do you need someone investigated?"

"No, I'm actually here to talk to you." She hesitated before saying, "I'm a reporter."

He had been looking at a form on his desk, expecting her to be in need of his services. But at the word reporter, he looked up at her. He slowly looked her over. "The one who called me? Veronica?"

"Yes," she nervously admitted. She hoped he couldn't hear her heart pounding. Surely her bullet proof vest muffled the sound. Here goes nothing, she thought. "I was wondering if you could tell me what happened the night you and Jack Young responded to a robbery six years ago."

"I don't like to talk about that. I already told you. Take a hint and leave it alone."

"I understand. It's just that I found out that Jeff Levin—the guy who shot your partner—escaped from prison six months ago. Did you know?"

Aldred shrugged. "I'd heard something about it."

"Do you know why he would have escaped?"

"I guess he didn't like prison."

"Probably," she agreed. "Do you think there would be any other reason?"

"I don't know."

She was starting to worry that he wouldn't tell her anything. She went on, as gently as she could, "I know you don't like to talk about it, and I'm sure it's a difficult memory, but could you walk me through that night? It can be off the record, I'm just interested."

He sat and thought for a full minute before reluctantly saying, "We were on duty that night and we were driving around. We were in Midtown when we heard something on the radio about a robbery at a jewelry store. We were close, so we responded."

"And what happened when you got there?" she prodded.

"I went in from the street and it was dark—really dark—and there were two guys dressed in black. They were going through the cases and taking the jewelry. Jack, he went around and went through the back door—like they did, to get in. Then one of the burglars—Levin—he uh, he came over by me and tried to get my gun. And we struggled." Aldred's eyes were staring through Rory, not seeing her, but rather the night six years before. "I tried to hold onto my guy, but he got it. And he shot Jack."

Rory paused before asking, "Then he ran out of the store?"

Aldred nodded. "Yeah."

"Did you try to chase after him?"

"I uh—well, he got away. So I made sure the other guy didn't get away too."

"I see," she said. "But Levin says he ran out before any shots were fired. His account claims that he was never close enough to you to take your gun. Do you know why he would have said that?"

"He's a liar. And a thief."

Rory wondered what she should do. He was sticking to his story. She remembered what Tristan told her—don't let the lie go. "So, I'm just trying to figure out how Levin crossed the jewelry store so quickly to get your gun. It doesn't seem like he'd have been able to do it."

"Well that's what happened," Douglas insisted.

"What did Levin do after he shot Jack?"

"He ran out."

"But what did he do with the gun? He didn't have it when the other cop caught him. He surely didn't hand it back to you."

"No. He uh, he dropped it on the floor as he ran out."

"Oh. Okay. But why didn't you chase after him?"

"I wanted to stay with Jack, to see if he was okay."

She quickly fired another question at him, "What about Crabtree? How did you keep him there if you were tending to your partner?"

"I apprehended him first. Then went to Jack."

"I see." Rory sat and thought. She wondered if _she_ could pull off a lie. She sat and considered it for a moment and decided to go a different way. "Did you like Diane when she was still married to Jack?"

Across the desk, Douglas furrowed his brows in confusion. "What?"

Rory nodded. "Did you like her when she was still married to your partner?"

"No."

She pressed on. "Is that why you did it?" she asked, not breaking eye contact. "Were you getting him out of the way, so you could have Diane for yourself?"

He shook his head. "No."

"You must have spent some time with her. Did you have a crush on her?"

"No," he insisted again. She was starting to upset him.

"I'm sure you saw her sometimes. Were you jealous of your partner?"

"_No_!"

"Maybe you wanted him out of the picture, subconsciously."

"I wasn't trying to steal his wife," he insisted angrily. "He was like a brother!"

"Then why did you shoot him?" she asked quickly.

"It was an accident!" he exclaimed before he could stop himself.

Rory gasped. He admitted it.

He stared forward. "It was dark. There was a movement at the other side of the store and I thought it was Levin. I shot, but it wasn't him. It was Jack." He started shaking his head down at his desk. "I didn't mean to do it. It was an accident."

She thought for half a second. "Why have you been wiring Derek Crabtree money?"

Aldred's eyes widened in shock. "He told you?"

She didn't answer his question. She just raised a brow to prompt him.

"I had to keep him quiet. He's been blackmailing me ever since Levin escaped."

"If it was an accident, why didn't you just tell the truth?"

"I didn't want to go to jail."

"You probably wouldn't have—it wasn't on purpose."

"I panicked! I didn't know what to do. So I said Levin did it. Who'd believe him over me?" he asked.

"_I_ did, when he told me what really happened," she answered. "And now he'll be able to get out of prison."

Aldred shook his head. "No one's going to find out." He reached to his side, but there was nothing there. Instead he opened on of his desk drawers.

Rory stood up, it was time to get out of there.

He found what he was looking for and stood up, too. "Stop."

She froze when he pointed his gun at her. She was too terrified to move—or to hear the bell jingle in the lobby. A second later, Tristan appeared at the doorway. His eyes quickly went from Rory to the gun pointed at her. He instantly tackled her, so they both fell to the floor as Aldred fired a shot that missed them both.

Tristan took his own gun out of its holster and pointed it at Douglas. "Drop your weapon," he demanded forcefully. When Aldred didn't comply immediately, Tristan said, "You won't be able to pay _us_ off. We don't need your money. Put it down."

They could hear the outside door open—more police. Seeing no way out, Aldred lowered his gun. Rory watched as Tristan got up and holstered his gun so he could handcuff and Mirandize him. Tristan passed him off to Stevenson and the other uniformed officers and returned to Rory. She'd gotten up off the floor and was trying—unsuccessfully—to slow her heart down. She couldn't hear anything—the gun shot was had been deafening.

Tristan took her in his arm and she held onto him tightly. She started to cry a little. She couldn't stop the tears from falling or the lump from rising in her throat. She pressed her face into his chest and he stroked her hair and whispered in her ear that it was okay.

"You did it," he said. "I told you, you could do it. You did good."

She pulled away from him and he wiped the tears from her face.

He took her hand and said, "Come on. We have another arrest to make."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A little while later, all the police personnel were returning to the third floor of the precinct, with Rory in tow. A couple uniformed officers led Douglas Aldred to an interrogation room to get his formal written confession. Tristan went over to the holding cell and slid the door open. He gestured for Jeff to get up and come over. Freddy did as well. They were both holding in their excitement over seeing Aldred in handcuffs.

Tristan pointed to Jeff. "You owe me a name."

But Jeff shook his head. "No. I owe _her_ a name," he said, pointing at Rory.

Tristan looked over at her and tilted his head in Jeff's direction.

She stepped forward and Jeff held a hand up, to whisper in her ear, as though it was a secret. When she heard the name, she looked perplexed. "Really?" she asked.

Jeff nodded.

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Huh." She turned to Tristan and Mark, who were watching the exchange. "You were almost right," she told them. "It _was_ someone who could get in whenever he wanted."

"Let's go," Tristan said.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The next morning, Rory's alarm went off at the same time it had the day before, and not because she forgot to reset it. Once again, Tristan stopped her from leaving the bed.

"I have a meeting," she told him.

"That was yesterday," he mumbled.

"I have another one," she said tiredly. She wished it wasn't true, they'd been at the precinct half the night. Then she wasn't able to fall asleep due to an adrenaline high. But this was an important meeting. And she was the one to request it, again. So it would be a good idea to be on time.

"What is this one about?" Tristan asked.

"Oh, uh, I'll tell you about it after work, when you're awake," she said, feeling him nuzzle his face—that hadn't been shaved in two days—into the back of her neck.

"I'm awake," he protested.

"No you're not."

"Part of me is."

"I can tell. But that's not the part that processes information."

"Whatever," he said. He didn't let her go as he softly said, "You should talk to someone."

"I said we'll talk after work."

He shook his head. "You should talk to a professional—about yesterday. It was your first time having a gun pointed at you."

"Oh. Okay," she said. She didn't try to move. A minute later, she felt Tristan loosen his hold so she could get up.

She went across the hall to get ready. Similar to the day before, she returned a half hour later to see Tristan up and dressed. This time he wasn't looking through her jewelry box though.

"You're up," she observed.

"Yeah," he said as he sat at the edge of the bed to put on his shoes.

"I thought you'd sleep in a little. You already caught the bad guys. Don't you get reward to yourself with some extra rest?"

He finished tying his shoe and shook his head. "Nope. It just means I have dot all the i's and cross the t's. Plus, I have an errand to run before work."

"That was yesterday," she said. She was in the middle of getting dressed, but stopped suddenly. "Wait, what day is it? Are we stuck in Thursday? Because I'm not sure I can do yesterday a second time."

"Don't worry. It isn't Groundhog's Day," Tristan said. "Today won't be a repeat of yesterday."

"Good, yesterday was pretty big," she reasoned. She zipped the back of her skirt and—thinking of her meeting—muttered, "Then again, today will be big too."

"Yeah, it will be," Tristan said, though he sounded a little unsure of himself.

"Hmm?" Rory asked, as she was distracted by her own thoughts.

He shook his head. "Nothing." He stood up and went over to Rory. He tugged at her hair, which she'd curled. "You look fancy today."

"Yeah. I feel fancy."

He nodded. "Good. It's your day today."

"How?"

"Your phone will be ringing off the hook once word gets out that you successfully obtained a confession yesterday. And played a key role in identifying another murderer. You're going to be a hot commodity today."

"I hadn't even thought about that. People are going to want to interview _me_. That'll be a switch," she mused.

"Try not to let it go to your head."

"Too late," she said as she smiled slowly. "Oh hey, I'll get to tell Mom and Luke all about it tomorrow night at dinner. That's exciting." Then again, she had two things to share with her mother.

Tristan looked at her with knit brows. "Are you going to Connecticut?"

Rory looked confused at his question. Then she gasped. "They're coming to have dinner with us tomorrow night. Did I forget to tell you?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"I'm sorry. Is that okay?"

He nodded again. "That'll be perfect." Then he thought a moment and frowned. "Or really awkward, depending on how today goes." He shook his head. "No, it'll be okay."

"What?" she asked, having no idea what he was rambling about.

He shook his head and looked back at her. "Nothing."

"I think it _is_ Thursday, you're being weird again."

"Don't worry about it, I'm fine." He checked his watch. "I have to go. I'll see you after work." He kissed her good bye and left the room.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that afternoon, Rory was at her desk, finishing up a telephone conversation. "Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Hayes. Have a good afternoon, bye," she said before hanging up.

A few minutes later, her cell phone rang from her inside her desk. She pulled it out to answer. "Hello?"

"Hey Rory," Lane said pleasantly.

"Lane, hi. How was the honeymoon do-over?"

"_So_ much better than the original."

"No sex on the beach this time?" Rory inquired.

"None. We learned our lesson. The hotel was amazing, the tropical weather was beautiful. And it wasn't bad to only be responsible for ourselves for a week."

"I'm glad you had such a good time," Rory said with a smile. And it gave her an idea. A well deserved idea.

"How were the boys last weekend?" Lane asked. "They didn't give you any trouble, did they?"

"Of course not. They were great," Rory answered.

"Good," Lane said. "I do have one question for you though."

"What's that?"

"Do you have a couple kids hidden down there in New York?"

"What? No. Why?" Rory asked.

"Steve was showing me this picture of you with a couple kids."

"Oh. He showed you?" Rory asked, remembering the drawing. "_He_ drew that—all on his own."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Because he said you want a girl."

Rory blushed. "That—it was—so I," she stuttered. "I just thought it looked . . . more even."

"Sure," Lane said dubiously.

Just then, Kyle and some reporters from various sections of the paper approached Rory.

"Hey, Lane, I need to go," she said.

"Okay. I'll see you next time you come home. And thanks again," Lane said before they hung up.

Rory looked up at her colleagues. "Can I help you?"

"Will you tell us what happened yesterday?" Kyle asked.

"You've already heard it—twice," she reminded him.

"But these guys haven't," he said, indicating the group of reporters.

Rory sighed. "Fine." She'd lost count of how many times she told the story. She'd have to add in the reporters from four other newspapers who'd called to calculate the grand total. She started the story from the beginning, when Freddy had called Kyle the previous week.

"Whoa," someone said, impressed with her role in getting the confession.

"So then Levin told you who killed Courtney Rivers?" Kyle asked.

She nodded. "Yes. It turns out, the landlord—Edward Waters—was one of the guys Courtney was sleeping with. He wasn't paying though, because she wanted to keep him placated about using Erika Hart's apartment."

"So he was the one who killed her?" a reporter from Entertainment asked.

"Yes. He was in Freddy and Jeff's apartment to fix a leaky faucet. And when he was there, he could hear Courtney upstairs on the phone with John Bell. Jeff said Waters looked really angry when he heard her talking. Apparently, he thought she just needed a place to stay. He didn't know she was sleeping with a bunch of guys," Rory explained. "So he left the leaky faucet and went upstairs. Remember, Jeff could hear Waters up there. He confronted her about all the guys and she tried to calm him down. He went along with it and asked if he could tie her up."

"Then he smothered her," Kyle told the others.

Rory nodded. "And poured alcohol around the bed to ignite a fire. Then he took the stolen key from the kitchen table on his way out and went down to his office. He waited about fifteen minutes before he called the fire department."

"Wow," one of her co-workers said. Since the story was finished, they thanked her for telling it and went back to their own desks.

"You must feel like Dumbledore today," Marie commented when it was just the two of them again.

Rory turned to her. "Why?"

"You know, when he tells Harry why everything happened at the end of the book."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess that _is_ how I feel about now."

Rory's phone rang and she sighed. "Newsroom," she answered.

"Hey Rory, it's Freddy."

"How's it going?"

"Not too bad. Except our phone hasn't stopped ringing today."

"Neither has mine."

"Everybody wants Jeff's story, but he said you get first dibs."

"I should say so."

"I was thinking about it," Freddy said contemplatively.

"Oh dear."

"And I think you should write a book about the whole thing."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah, and then you should option it for a movie."

"Hmm, I don't know," she said doubtfully. "You sound a little like my mother."

"Of course," Freddy continued, "Hollywood will probably want a love story. So I _suppose_ my character and your character could get together at the end of the movie."

Rory snorted. "What? I don't think so," she protested with a laugh.

"Fine, I guess your reporter character could end up with the detective. But they'd probably have to meet at the beginning of the movie—at the first crime scene."

"Gee, I don't know. That's kind of a stretch for us," she said dryly.

"Why, where did you guys really meet?"

Rory paused for a beat before answering, "At a crime scene."

"You're right, that _is_ a stretch."

"To be fair, it isn't where we met _originally_." Rory looked up and saw her editor not too far away. She waved to get his attention. She held her hand over the receiver of the phone. "Do you have some time to talk about something?" she asked James.

He nodded. "Yeah. Come to my office."

Rory returned to her telephone conversation. "Hey Freddy, I have to go. I'll be in touch."

"Okay, bye," he said before they both hung up.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Tristan was at his desk. He kept alternately glancing at the clock on the wall and his watch every minute or two. There was paperwork on his desk, but it was being neglected.

"You seem a little anxious," Mark observed.

Tristan looked over at him and shook his head. "No I'm not."

"Okay. But I'm ninety percent sure that's how my dog looks when he's waiting for me to get home at the end of the day."

"Whatever," Tristan muttered. He checked his watch again. "It's five, I'm out of here." He stood and picked up his suit jacket from the back of his chair. Before he continued on his way, he paused by Mark's desk. "If you ever kill me on accident, you don't get to marry Rory."

Mark raised a brow, thinking that he really didn't want to anyway, as Tristan walked out of the squad room.

Captain Meyer approached their work area then. "DuGrey still does the paperwork for your cases, doesn't he?"

Stevenson smiled, somewhat smugly, and answered, "Yeah, but only until he passes me in seniority."

"Is he finished with the report for Courtney Rivers?" Meyer asked.

Mark reached across the desks to grab the form sitting on Tristan's desk and frowned at what he saw. "No. He hasn't even started."

"And he already left?"

He looked back up and nodded. "He seemed determined, too. I'll do this for him."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"You're sure you're happy with your decision?" James asked as he leaned back in his swivel chair.

Rory was sitting on the other side of his desk. She smiled and nodded. "Yes."

James shook his head. "I can't say I'm not a _little_ disappointed."

"You knew you would be when you went out of your way to find me an editor job," she reminded him.

"That's true. So it's my own fault."

"Yup," she agreed. "Are you going to have someone to take my place in September?" she asked.

James furrowed his brows. "I have no choice."

"I _do_ feel a little guilty about that."

"Don't worry, I have this feeling that Kyle will be perfect."

Rory pursed her lips ruefully. "A feeling?"

He nodded and smirked. "Call it a hunch."

"Well in that case, I don't feel guilty," she said as she stood up. "Do you need anything from me before I leave for the day?"

James nodded. "Nope. You've had a long week. Go celebrate all your accomplishments."

"I just might," she said as she left the office.

She proceeded out of the newsroom, only stopping briefly at her desk to grab her purse. She wanted to sneak out undetected, before someone else asked her about her heroics from the previous day. When she walked out of the building, she was met with heat from the bright sun. She saw Tristan waiting for her next to his car. She felt light as she walked down to meet him.

"No coffee today?"

He shook his head. "I don't have anything to apologize for."

"True. But don't I deserve a reward for yesterday?"

"I'll see what I can do." He opened the passenger side door. "Let's go."

Rory got in and Tristan walked around to his side. After they had their seat belts on, he pulled away from the curb and headed north.

"Oh man, I had to repeat the story of what happened yesterday at least ten times," she said enthusiastically. "I'm not going to lie, they think I'm pretty cool now. Even Kyle. He just _might_ think I'm more awesome than you."

"More?"

Rory smiled. "Maybe. At least equal to. Does it always feel like this after you catch the bad guys? Because I could get used to it. Today was crazy," she chattered.

"I knew you'd get a lot of attention."

"You were right." Rory was so engrossed in going over the day's events, she barely noticed that Tristan wasn't driving them home—either of their homes. When he parked, she looked around and asked, "Central Park?"

"Yeah. I thought we'd take a walk," he explained.

"But you don't like Central Park."

"It's not so bad. I only had to chase down that one mugger last week. It can be nice," he said as they took off their seat belts. "Besides, we like New York. What's more New York than taking a stroll through Central Park?"

"Being the victim of the mugger?" Rory jokingly answered. "We could go to one of the quiet areas though. Like Bethesda Fountain," she suggested.

"That seems a little cliché. But that's all right. Yeah, you should pick the place."

"What?"

"Nothing, let's go."

Tristan started to remove his gun, but Rory stopped him. "Maybe you should keep that. Just in case."

"Yeah, good idea," he said as they started to get out. Before shutting the door, he reached for a Cracker Jack box from under his seat. He walked around the car and took Rory's hand as they started down the sidewalk.

"Ooh, I wonder what's playing at Delacorte Theater. Maybe it's _Romeo and Juliet_. You could finally see how it ends," she said with a grin. "That could be fun."

Tristan knew how it ended. "More like a bad omen," he muttered.

Rory knit her brows and looked down at their hands. "It's like a hundred degrees out here. How is your hand so cold?"

"What? Oh, is it? I hadn't noticed," he said hastily. A second later they heard a car alarm going off about a hundred yards away.

"Uh-oh. I doubt that guy over there locked his keys in his car," she said. "I can wait if you want to go have a chat with him."

He looked across the park to the car. There was a loud noise as the guy worked on the lock. Tristan turned back to Rory and shook his head. "I can ignore it," he insisted, as they continued to walk. "So what's the deal with all the meetings this week?"

"Well, after I made such a big deal about covering your case by myself the other week, Jimmy took it upon himself to talk with some of his editor friends. I was offered a job. As editor of the News section at the _Spartanburg Herald-Journal_."

"Spartanburg?"

She nodded. "South Carolina."

"Oh . . . well—there's nothing like southern hospitality."

"It was so out of the blue. I had no idea Jimmy was going to set that up for me. I mean, I'm flattered, but I wasn't expecting it at all. I definitely didn't ask him to do it," Rory explained. "They want an answer by Monday. So I—oh!—"

"Whoops—"

They both stumbled, but Tristan caught Rory before they fell to the ground.

"Oh, your shoe's untied," she said, stating the obvious and laughing a little at their near fall. "I'll hold that while you tie it."

Tristan didn't react quickly enough as Rory took the Cracker Jack box from his hand. His eyes grew wide with panic when she heard something rattle at the bottom of the box.

She frowned. "I think you got ripped off." She opened the box and squinted as she tried to see what was inside.

Tristan opened his mouth to say something, but he was rendered speechless as she turned the box upside down and a ring fell into her hand. It was not plastic. Rory inhaled sharply and Tristan froze. The white gold band had a diamond sitting between two rubies. The jewels sparkled in the bright sunlight.

"Oh," she breathed, her eyes wide. "They—they've really stepped up the quality of their prizes, haven't they?" She lifted her gaze to meet his then.

"It was my grandmother's," he explained, his eyes were glued to her face. "I lied the other day. Grandpa didn't ask me to go to Hartford. I went on my own . . . because I wanted to get that." He tilted his head toward her hand.

"It's really beautiful," she said in a small voice as she looked back down at the ring.

Tristan nodded in agreement. "He had it made for her—a long time ago. That's why it has rubies. It was her birthstone."

"Oh."

"I uh—I want _you_ to have it," he said slowly.

"You do?" Rory asked, glancing at him again.

"Yeah. I think it would look pretty on you."

"Oh." She let the ring fall back into the box and started to close it back up.

Tristan went on hurriedly. "But I can put it away for now—or forever—if it would get in the way of other things that you have to do—or want to do—because you should definitely do those things. That would be okay. I mean, I would be okay with that," he rambled. "You're the star, not me. I pretend to be, mostly because it's fun. But you're the one with places to go," he said. He continued in earnest, "I could be your home, though—wherever you want home to be."

Tristan's heart was beating as fast as it would have if he'd just chased down a suspect. In fact, he wished there was one he could chase right now. It would be easier than what he was doing—or trying to do.

Frustrated with himself, he put his hands at his waist, and then he continued, "Rory."

"What?"

"You can do better."

"Better than what?"

"Than me."

"I can?"

He nodded. "Easily. But it's too late now, because you're staying with me." He closed his eyes for a second and gave his head a quick shake. "I mean—I'm staying with _you_. I'm pathetic, not stupid—well, I'm a little stupid," he said, digressing slightly. "You're just . . . I mean, I wanted—but you don't have—," he stammered.

He looked up to the sky desperately and restlessly put his hands behind his head. "This is coming out worse than before," he muttered to himself. "And that was really bad."

"Tristan," Rory said.

He looked back at her and let his arms down. "What? Good, you're stopping me. Good idea. You can probably express yourself coherently."

"Your shoe is still untied," she reminded him.

He'd hoped her input would have been more meaningful. Confused, he glanced down at his shoe and then back to Rory. "Oh. Yeah."

He momentarily held her gaze before slowly kneeling down in front of her to tie it. His hands fumbled a bit and it took longer than it should have. When he finished, he didn't get up. He took the box from Rory. He could barely feel his hands. They were tingly. And his mouth had gone dry.

"There wasn't a box," he explained. "I was trying to make up for last week—or be clever—or something." He shook his head a little and muttered, "I'm the weird one."

He sat the box down and gazed at the ring. He reached over to take Rory's left hand in his—which was now a little clammy as well as cold. He kissed the back of her hand and rested his rough cheek against it for a moment. He looked out over the park, no longer registering the carjacking as he gathered his courage. He looked back at her hand and pensively caressed her ring finger gently with his thumb.

He cleared his throat and licked his lips before he spoke. "You should—I want you to think about it," he said. He resolutely let out a breath before he lifted his head to look her in the eye.

"Will you marry me?"

_**Fin**_


End file.
